THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 BEQUEST OF 
 
 Alice R. Hilgard 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/americanpoemslonOOscudrich 
 
AMERICAN POEMS. 
 
 LONGFELLOW: WHITTIER: BRYANT: 
 HOLMES: LOWELL: EMERSON, 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES AND NOTES. 
 
 ^^o^AJUa, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
 
 1881. 
 
fief/* ""7- 
 
 Copyright, 1858, 
 By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Ctopyright, 1850, 1856, 1858, 1860, 1861, 1864, 1866, 1868, 1875, and 1878 
 Br JOIIN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Copyright, 1864, 
 By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Copyright, 1875 and 1878, 
 By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Copyright, 1848, 1868, 1874, 1875, and 1876 
 By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Copyright, 1862 and 1867, 
 By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Copyright, 1879, 
 By HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & CO 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 
 
 •TEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY, 
 
 GIFT 
 
 1 1 • f J 
 

 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The general use which has followed the first 
 publication of American Poems confirms the editor 
 in his belief that such a book has a real place in 
 our educational system, and he is gratified by the 
 wide and cordial recognition which it has received. 
 The few criticisms which have been offered seem 
 mainly to have sprung from a hasty consideration 
 of its intention. It does not profess to be a repre* 
 sentative volume of American poetry, nor, in a 
 comprehensive way, of the poets whose works are 
 included in it, but, because the poems are of them- 
 selves worthy and the group is American in origin 
 and tone, the book has a significance which justifies 
 its title. The brief sketches of the authors con- 
 tained in it were necessarily limited to the main 
 facts of their literary life, but the editor, in review- 
 ing his work under the more favorable conditions 
 of a completed book and lapse of time, perceives 
 with renewed and stronger feeling how pure and 
 admirable is the spirit in which these American 
 poets have wrought, how high an ideal has been 
 before them, and with what grace and beauty their 
 lives have reinforced their poems ! Surely, the 
 
 M878985 
 
iy PREFACE. 
 
 poets have given America no greater gift than 
 their own characters and lofty lives. 
 
 Scarcely any attempt at criticism was made of 
 our writers in this volume ; in the companion vol- 
 ume of American Prose, where all but one of the 
 poets appear again, the opportunity has been taken 
 to call attention more specifically to the art, as here 
 to the biographic details. The two volumes will be 
 found to complement each other. 
 
 January, 1880. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This volume of American Poems has been pre- 
 pared with special reference to the interests of 
 young people, both at school and at home. Read- 
 ing-books and popular collections of poetry contain 
 many of the shorter and well-known poems of the 
 authors represented in this book, but the scope 
 of such collections does not generally permit the 
 introduction of the longer poems. It is these 
 poems, and, with a slight exception, these only, 
 that make up this volume. The power to read and 
 enjoy poetry is one of the finest results of educa- 
 tion, but it cannot be attained by exclusive at- 
 
PREFACE. v 
 
 tention to short poems; there is involved in this 
 power the capacity for sustained attention, the re- 
 maining with the poet upon a long flight of imag- 
 ination, the exercise of the mind in bolder sweep 
 of thought. Moreover, the familiarity with long 
 poems produces greater power of appreciation when 
 the shorter ones are taken up. It is much to take 
 deep breaths of the upper air, to fill the lungs 
 with a good draught of poetry, and unless one ac- 
 companies the poet in his longer reaches, he fails 
 to know what poetry can give him. 
 
 In making the selection for this volume a very 
 simple principle has been followed. It was desired 
 to make the book an agreeable introduction to the 
 pleasures of poetry, and, by confining it to Ameri- 
 can poetry of the highest order, to give young peo- 
 ple in America the most natural acquaintance with 
 literature. These poets are our interpreters. All 
 but one are still living, so that the poetry is con- 
 temporaneous and appeals through familiar forms ; 
 as far as possible narrative poems have been chosen, 
 and, in the arrangement of authors, regard has 
 been had to degrees of difficulty, the more involved 
 and subtle forms of poetry following the simpler 
 and more direct. Throughout, the book has beeu 
 conceived in a spirit which welcomes poetry as a 
 noble delight, not as a grammatical exercise or 
 elocutionary task. 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 With the same intention the critical apparatus 
 has been treated in a literary rather than in a ped- 
 agogical way. The editor has imagined himself 
 reading aloud, and stopping now and then to explain 
 a phrase, to clear an allusion, or to give a sugges- 
 tion as to similar forms in literature. Since sev- 
 eral of the poems are semi-historical in character. 
 Lhe historic basis has been carefully pointed out, 
 and hints given for further pursuit of the subjects 
 treated. Words, though obsolete or archaic, are 
 not explained when the dictionary account is suffi- 
 cient. A brief sketch of the author precedes each 
 section. 
 
 It is strongly hoped that the book will be ac- 
 cepted by schools as a contribution to that very 
 important work in which teachers are engaged, of 
 giving to their pupils an interest in the best litera- 
 ture, a love for pure and engaging forms of art. 
 If, with all our drill and practice in reading dur- 
 ing the years of school-life, children leave their 
 schools with no taste for good reading, and no 
 familiarity with those higher forms of literature 
 that have grown out of the very life which they 
 *re living, it must be questioned whether the time 
 given to reading has been most wisely employed. 
 
 August, 1879. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. p*«* 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1 
 
 Evangeline: a Tale of Acadie . . 5 
 
 The Courtship of Miles Standish . . 102 
 
 The Building of the Ship . . . 172 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 188 
 
 Snow-Bound : A Winter Idyl • . 191 
 
 Among the Hills 217 
 
 Mabel Martin 235 
 
 Cobbler Keezar's Vision .... 248 
 Barclay of Ury . . . . . 255 
 
 The Two Rabbis 261 
 
 The Gift of Tritemius .... 264 
 The Brother of Mercy .... 266 
 The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall . 269 
 
 Maud Muller 276 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . . . 282 
 
 Sella 287 
 
 The Little People of the Snow . . 305 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . . ,318 
 
 Grandmother's Story .... 321 
 
 The School-Boy . . . . . .333 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 348 
 
 The Vision of Sir Launfal . • .352 
 Under the Willows • . • .365 
 Under the Old Elm .... 378 
 
 Agassiz .... . . 394 
 
 RALPB WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 416 
 
 The Adirondacs . . . . .419 
 
 The Titmouse 431 
 
 Monadnoo . ..... 435 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 In the Laboratory with Aqaosi* 451 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 H 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 ENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born 
 in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. lie 
 was a classmate of Hawthorne at Bowdoin College, 
 graduating there in the class of 1825. He began 
 the study of law in the office of his father, Hon. 
 Stephen Longfellow ; but receiving shortly the 
 appointment of professor of modern languages at 
 Bowdoin, he devoted himself after that to litera- 
 ture, and to teaching in connection with literature. 
 Before beginning his work at Bowdoin he in- 
 creased his qualifications by travel and study in 
 Europe, where he stayed three years. Upon his re- 
 turn he gave his lectures on modern languages and 
 literature at the college, and wrote occasionally 
 for the North American Review and other period- 
 icals. The first volume which he published was 
 an Essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry of 
 Spain, accompanied by translations from Spanish 
 verse. This was issued in 1833, but has not been 
 kept in print as a separate work. It appears as 
 a chapter in Outre-Mer, a reflection of his Euro- 
 1 
 
2 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 pean life and travel, the first of his prose-writings. 
 In 1835 he was invited to succeed Mr. George 
 Ticknor as professor of modern languages and 
 literature at Harvard College, and again went to 
 Europe for preparatory study, giving especial at- 
 tention to Switzerland and the Scandinavian coun- 
 tries. He held his professorship until 1854, but 
 has continued ever since to live in Cambridge, oc- 
 cupying a mansion-house known from a former 
 occupant as the Craigie House, and also as Wash- 
 ington's headquarters, that general having so used 
 it while organizing the army that held Boston in 
 siege at the beginning of the Revolution. Everett, 
 Sparks, and Worcester, the lexicographer, at one 
 time or another lived in this house, and here Long- 
 fellow has written most of his works. In 1839 
 appeared Hyperion, a Romance, which, with more 
 narrative form than Outre-Mer, like that gave the 
 results of a poet's entrance into the riches of the 
 Old World life. In the same year was published 
 Voices of the Night, a little volume containing 
 chiefly poems and translations which had been 
 printed separately in periodicals. The Psalm of 
 Life, perhaps the best known of Longfellow's short 
 poems, was in this volume, and here too were The 
 Beleaguered City and Footsteps of Angels. Ballads, 
 and other Poems and Poems on Slavery appeared 
 in 1842; The Spanish Student, a play in three acts, 
 in 1843 ; The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems in 
 1846; Evangeline in 1847; Kavanagh,.A Tale, in 
 prose, in 1849. Beside the various volumes com- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 
 
 prising short poems, the list of Mr. Longfellow's 
 works includes The Golden Legend, The Song of 
 Hiawatha, The Courtship of Miles Standish, Tales 
 of a Wayside Inn, The New England Tragedies* 
 and a translation of Dante's Divina Gommedia. 
 Mr. Longfellow's literary life began in his college 
 days, and every year still witnesses new poems 
 by him. A classification of his poems and longer 
 works would be an interesting task, and would help 
 to disclose the wide range of his sympathy and 
 taste ; a collection of the metres which he has used 
 would show the versatility of his art, and similar 
 studies would lead one to discover the many coun- 
 tries and ages to which he has gone for subjects. 
 It would not be difficult to gather from the volume 
 of Longfellow's poems hints of personal experi- 
 ence, that biography of the heart which is of more 
 worth to us than any record, however full, of ex- 
 ternal change and adventure. Such hints may be 
 found, for example, in the early lines, To the River 
 Charles, which may be compared with his recent 
 Three Friends of Mine, iv., v.; in A Gleam of Sun- 
 shine, To a Child, The Day is Done, The Fire of 
 Driftwood, Resignation, The Open Window, The 
 Ladder of St. Augustine, My Lost Youth, The Chil 
 dren's Hour, Weariness, and other poems ; not that 
 ive are to take all sentiments and statements made 
 in the first person as the poet's, for often the form 
 of the poem is so far dramatic that the poet is as- 
 suming a character not necessarily his own, but the 
 recurrence of certain strains, joined with personal 
 
4 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 allusions, helps one to penetrate the slight veil 
 with which the poet, here as elsewhere, half con- 
 ceals and half reveals himself. The friendly as- 
 sociations of the poet may also be discovered in 
 several poems directly addressed to persons or dis- 
 tinctly allusive of them, and the reader will find 
 it pleasant to construct the companionship of the 
 poet out of such poems as The Herons of Elm- 
 wood, To William E. Channing, The Fiftieth Birth- 
 day of Agassiz, To Charles Sumner, the Prelude to 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn, Hawthorne, and other 
 poems. An interesting study of Mr. Longfellow's 
 writings will be found in a paper by W. D. How- 
 ells, in the North American Review, vol. civ. 
 
I. 
 
 EVANGELINE : A TALE OF ACADIE. 
 
 HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 [The country now known as Nova Scotia, and 
 called formerly Acadie by the French, was in the 
 hands of the French and English by turns until the 
 year 1713, when, by the Peace of Utrecht, it was 
 ceded by France to Great Britain, and has ever 
 since remained in the possession of the English. 
 But in 1713 the inhabitants of the peninsula were 
 mostly French farmers and fishermen, living about 
 Minas Basin and on Annapolis River, and the Eng- 
 lish government exercised only a nominal control 
 over them. It was not until 1749 that the English 
 themselves began to make settlements in the coun- 
 try, and that year they laid the foundations of the 
 town of Halifax. A jealousy soon sprang up be- 
 tween the English and French settlers, which was 
 deepened by the great conflict which was impend- 
 ing between the two mother countries ; for the 
 treaty of peace at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, which 
 confirmed the English title to Nova Scotia, was 
 scarcely more than a truce between the two powers 
 which had been struggling for ascendency since the 
 beginning of the century. The French engaged in 
 $ long controversy with the English respecting the 
 
6 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 boundaries of Acadie, which had been defined by the 
 treaties in somewhat general terms, and intrigues 
 were carried on with the Indians, who were gen- 
 erally in sympathy with the French, for the annoy- 
 ance of the English settlers. The Acadians were 
 allied to the French by blood and by religion, but 
 they claimed to have the rights of neutrals, and ihat 
 these rights had been granted to them by previous 
 English officers of the crown. The one point of 
 special dispute was the oath of allegiance demanded 
 of the Acadians by the English. This they refused 
 to take, except in a form modified to excuse them 
 from bearing arms against the French. The de- 
 mand was repeatedly made, and evaded with con- 
 stant ingenuity and persistency. Most of the Aca- 
 dians were probably simple-minded and peaceful 
 people who desired only to live undisturbed upon 
 their farms ; but there were some restless spirits, 
 especially among the young men, who compromised 
 the reputation of the community, and all were very 
 much under the influence of their priests, some of 
 whom made no secret of their bitter hostility to the 
 English, and of their determination to use every 
 means to be rid of them. 
 
 As the English interests grew and the critical re- 
 lations between the two countries approached open 
 warfare, the question of how to deal with the Aca- 
 dian problem became the commanding one of the 
 colony. There were some who coveted the rich 
 farms of the Acadians ; there were some who were 
 inspired by religious hatred ; but the prevailing 
 
EVANGELINE. 7 
 
 spirit was one of fear for themselves from the near 
 presence of a community which, calling itself neu- 
 tral, might at any time offer a convenient ground 
 for hostile attack. Yet to require these people to 
 withdraw to Canada or Louisburg would be to 
 strengthen the hands of the French, and make 
 these neutrals determined enemies. The colony 
 finally resolved, without consulting the home gov- 
 ernment, to remove the Acadians to other parts of 
 North America, distributing them through the col- 
 onies in such a way as to preclude any concert 
 amongst the scattered families by which they 
 should return to Acadia. To do this required 
 quick and secret preparations. There were at the 
 service of the English governor a number of New 
 England troops, brought thither for the capture of 
 the forts lying in the debatable land about the 
 head of the Bay of Fundy. These were under the 
 command of Lieutenant-Colonel John Winslow, of 
 Massachusetts, a great-grandson of Governor Ed- 
 ward Winslow of Plymouth, and to this gentleman 
 and Captain Alexander Murray was intrusted the 
 task of removal. They were instructed to use 
 stratagem, if possible, to bring together the various 
 families, but to prevent any from escaping to tne 
 woods. On the 2d of September, 1755, Winslow 
 issued a written order, addressed to the inhabitants 
 of Grand-Pre, Minas, River Canard, etc., " as well 
 ancient as young men and lads," — a proclamation 
 summoning all the males to attend him in the 
 ohurch at Grand-Pre on the 5th instant, to hear a 
 
8 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 communication which the governor had sent. As 
 there had been negotiations respecting the oath of 
 allegiance, and much discussion as to the with- 
 drawal of the Acadians from the country, though 
 none as to their removal and dispersal, it was un- 
 derstood that this was an important meeting, and 
 upon the day named four hundred and eighteen 
 men and boys assembled in the church. Winslow, 
 attended by his officers and men caused a guard to 
 be placed round the church, and then announced to 
 the people his majesty's decision that they were to 
 be removed with their families out of the country. 
 The church became at once a guard-house, and all 
 the prisoners were under strict surveillance. At 
 the same time similar plans had been carried out at 
 Pisiquid under Captain Murray, and less success- 
 fully at Chignecto. Meanwhile there were whispers 
 of a rising among the prisoners, and although the 
 transports which had been ordered from Boston 
 had not yet arrived, it was determined to make 
 use of the vessels which had conveyed the troops, 
 and remove the men to these for safer keeping. 
 This was done on the 10th of September, and the 
 men remained on the vessels in the harbor until 
 the arrival of the transports, when these were made 
 use of, and about three thousand souls sent out of 
 the country to North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, 
 Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, and Massa- 
 chusetts. In the haste and confusion of sending 
 them off, — a haste which was increased by the 
 anxiety of the officers to be rid of the distastefu.' 
 
EVANGELINE. 9 
 
 business, and a confusion which was greater from 
 the difference of tongues, — many families were 
 separated, and some at least never came together 
 again. The story of Evangeline is the story of 
 such a separation. The removal of the Acadians 
 was a blot upon the government of Nova Scotia 
 and upon that of Great Britain, which never dis- 
 owned the deed, although it was probably done 
 without direct permission or command from Eng- 
 land. It proved to be unnecessary, but it must 
 also be remembered that to many men at that time 
 the English power seemed trembling before France, 
 and that the colony at Halifax regarded the act as 
 one of self-preservation. 
 
 The authorities for a historical inquiry into this 
 subject are best seen in a volume published by the 
 government of Nova Scotia at Halifax in 1869, 
 entitled, Selections from the Public Documents of 
 the Province of Nova Scotia ; edited by Thomas 
 B. Akins, D. C. L., Commissioner of Public Rec- 
 ords ; and in a manuscript journal kept by Col- 
 onel Winslow, now in the cabinet of the Massachu- 
 setts Historical Society in Boston. At the State 
 House in Boston are two volumes of records, en- 
 titled French Neutrals, which contain voluminous 
 papers relating to the treatment of the Acadians 
 who were sent to Massachusetts. Probably the 
 work used by the poet in writing JEvangeline was 
 An Historical and Statistical Account of Nova 
 Scotia, by Thomas C. Haliburton, who is best 
 blown as the author of The Clock-Maker ; or The 
 
10 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick of Slickville, 
 a book which, written apparently to prick the 
 Nova Scotians into more enterprise, was for a long 
 while the chief representative of Yankee smart- 
 ness. Judge Haliburton's history was published 
 in 1829. A later history, which takes advantage 
 more freely of historical documents, is A History 
 of Nova Scotia, or Acadie, by Beamish Murdock, 
 Esq., Q. C, Halifax, 1866. Still more recent is 
 a smaller, well written work, entitled The History 
 of Acadia from its First Discovery to its Surrender 
 to England by the Treaty of Paris, by James Han- 
 nay, St. John, N. B., 1879. W. J. Anderson pub- 
 lished a paper in the transactions of the Literary 
 and Historical Society of Quebec, New Series, part 
 7, 1870, entitled Evangeline and the Archives oj 
 Nova Scotia, in which he examines the poem by 
 the light of the volume of Nova Scotia Archives, 
 edited by T. B. Akins. The sketches of travellers 
 in Nova Scotia, as Acadia, or a Month among the 
 Blue Noses, by F. S. Cozzens, and Baddeclc, by C. 
 D. Warner, give the present appearance of the 
 country and inhabitants. 
 
 The measure of Evangeline is what is commonly 
 Vnown as English dactylic hexameter. The hexam- 
 eter is the measure used by Homer in the Iliad 
 and the Odyssey, and by Virgil in the ^Eneid, but 
 the difference between the English language and 
 the Latin or Greek is so great, especially when wft 
 consider that in English poetry every word must 
 
EVANGELINE. 11 
 
 be accented according to its customary pronuncia- 
 tion, while in scanning Greek and Latin verse ac- 
 cent follows the quantity of the vowels, that in ap- 
 plying this term of hexameter to Evangeline it 
 must not be supposed by the reader that he is get- 
 ting the effect of Greek hexameters. It is the 
 Greek hexameter translated into English use, and 
 some have maintained that the verse of the Iliad is 
 better represented in the English by the trochaic 
 measure of fifteen syllables, of which an excellent 
 illustration is in Tennyson's Locksley Hall ; others 
 have compared the Greek hexameter to the ballad 
 metre of fourteen syllables, used notably by Chap- 
 man in his translation of Homer's Iliad. The 
 measure adopted by Mr. Longfellow has never be- 
 come very popular in English poetry, but has re- 
 peatedly been attempted by other poets. The 
 reader will find the subject of hexameters dis- 
 cussed by Matthew Arnold in his lectures On 
 Translating Homer ; by James Spedding in Eng- 
 lish Hexameters, in his recent volume, Reviews and. 
 Discussions, Literary, Political and Historical, not 
 relating to Bacon ; and by John Stuart JBlackie in 
 Remarks on English Hexameters, contained in his 
 volume, Horce Hellenicce. 
 
 The measure lends itself easily to the lingering 
 melancholy which marks the greater part of the 
 poem, and the poet's fine sense of harmony between 
 subject and form is rarely better shown than in this 
 poem. The fall of the verse at the end of the line 
 wid the sharp recovery at the beginning of the next 
 7f\\\ be snares to the reader, who must beware of 
 
12 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 a jerking style of delivery. The voice naturally 
 seeks a rest in the middle of the line, and this rest, 
 or cassural pause, should be carefully regarded ; a 
 little practice will enable one to acquire that habit 
 of reading the hexameter, which we may liken, 
 roughly, to the climbing of a hill, resting a moment 
 on the summit, and then descending the other side. 
 The charm in reading Evangeline aloud, after a 
 clear understanding of the sense, which is the es- 
 sential in all good reading, is found in this gentle 
 labor of the former half of the line, and gentle ac- 
 celeration of the latter half.] 
 
 This is the forest primeval. The murmuring 
 pines and the hemlocks, 
 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indis- 
 tinct in the twilight, 
 
 Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and 
 prophetic, 
 
 Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on 
 their bosoms. 
 
 1. A primeval forest is, strictly speaking, one which has never 
 been disturbed by the axe. 
 
 3. Druids were priests of the Celtic inhabitants of ancient 
 O-aul and Britain. The name was probably of Celtic origin, but 
 its form may have been determined by the Greek word drus, an 
 oak, since their places of worship were consecrated groves of 
 oak. Perhaps the choice of the image was governed by the 
 analogy of a religion and tribe that were to disappear before a 
 stronger power. 
 
 4. A poetical description of an ancient harper will be found in 
 the Introduction to the Lay of the Last Minstrel, by Sir Walte. 
 Scott. 
 
EVANGELINE. 13 
 
 5 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 
 neighboring ocean 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
 wail of the forest. 
 
 This is the forest primeval; but where are the 
 hearts that beneath it 
 
 Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood- 
 land the voice of the huntsman? 
 
 Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of 
 Acadian farmers, — 
 10 Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water 
 the woodlands, 
 
 Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an 
 image of heaven ? 
 
 Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers 
 forever departed ! 
 
 Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty 
 blasts of October 
 
 Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle 
 them far o'er the ocean. 
 15 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful vil- 
 lage of Grand-Pre. 
 
 Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and en- 
 dures, and is patient, 
 
 Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of 
 woman's devotion, 
 
 List to the mournful tradition still sung by the 
 pines of the forest ; 
 
 List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the 
 happy. 
 
 8. Observe how the tragedy of the story is anticipated by this 
 pk ture of the startled roe. 
 19. In the earliest records Acadie is called Cadie; it after- 
 
H LONGFELLOW. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 20 In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin 
 
 of Minas, 
 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand- 
 
 Pre 
 Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched 
 
 to the eastward, 
 Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks 
 
 without number. 
 Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised 
 
 with labor incessant, 
 
 wards was called Arcadia, Accadia or L'Acadie. The name is 
 probably a French adaptation of a word common among the 
 Micmac Indians living there, signifying place or region, and 
 used as an affix to other words as indicating the place where 
 various things, as cranberries, eels, seals, were found in abun- 
 dance. The French turned this Indian term into Cadie or 
 Acadie; the English into Quoddy, in which form it remains 
 when applied to the Quoddy Indians, to Quoddy Head, the last 
 point of the United States next to Acadia, and in the compound 
 Passamaquoddy, or Pollock-Ground. 
 
 21. Compare, for effect, the first line of Goldsmith's The 
 Traveller*. Grand-Pre" will be found on the map as part of the 
 township of Horton. 
 
 24, The people of Acadia are mainly the descendants of the 
 colonists who were brought out to La Have and Port Royal by 
 Isaac de Razilly and Charnisay between the years 1633 and 
 1638. These colonists came from Rochelle, Saintonge, and Poi- 
 tou, so that they were drawn from a very limited area on the 
 west coast of France, covered by the modern departments of 
 Vendue and Charente InfeVieure. This circumstance had some 
 influence on their mode of settling the lands of Acadia, for they 
 eame from a country of marshes, where the sea was kept out by 
 artificial dikes, and they found in Acadia similar marshes, which 
 they dealt with in the same way that they had been accustomed 
 io practice in France. Hannay's History of Acadia, pp. 282, 
 
EVANGELINE. |$ 
 
 25 Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons 
 
 the flood-gates 
 Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will 
 
 o'er the meadows. 
 West and south there were fields of flax, and 
 
 orchards and cornfields 
 Spreading afar and un fenced o'er the plain; and 
 
 away to the northward 
 Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on 
 .the mountains 
 30 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the 
 
 mighty Atlantic 
 Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from iheir 
 
 station descended. 
 There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Aca- 
 dian village. 
 Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak 
 
 and of hemlock, 
 Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the 
 
 reign of the Henries. 
 35 Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows , 
 
 and gables projecting 
 Over the basement below protected and shaded 
 
 the doorway. 
 
 283. An excellent account of dikes and the flooding of low 
 lands, as practised in Holland, may be found in A Fawner' t 
 Vacation, by George E. Waring, Jr. 
 
 29. Blomidon is a mountainous" headland of red sandstone, 
 surmounted by a perpendicular wall of basaltic trap, the whole 
 about four hundred feet in height, at the entrance of the Basin 
 of Minas. 
 
 34. The characteristics of a Normandy village may be further 
 learned by reference to a pleasant little sketch-book, published 
 a few years since, called Normandy Picturesque, by Henry 
 Blackburn, and to Through Normandy, by Katharine S. Mac 
 quoid. 
 
16 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when 
 
 brightly the sunset 
 Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on 
 
 the chimneys, 
 Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and 
 
 in kirtles 
 4.0 Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning 
 
 the golden 
 Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles 
 
 within doors 
 Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels 
 
 and the songs of the maidens. 
 Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, 
 
 and the children 
 Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended 
 
 to bless them. 
 45 Reverend walked he among them; and up rose 
 
 matrons and maidens, 
 Hailing his slow approach with words of affec- 
 tionate welcome. 
 Then came the laborers home from the field, and 
 
 serenely the sun sank 
 Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon 
 
 from the belfry 
 Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of 
 
 the village 
 
 39. The term kirtle was sometimes applied to the jacket only, 
 Bometimes to the train or upper petticoat attached to it. A full 
 kirtle was always both; a half-kirtle was a term applied to either. 
 A man's jacket was sometimes called a kirtle; here the reference 
 is apparently to the full kirtle worn by women. 
 
 49. Angelus Domini is the full name given to the bell which, 
 at morning, noon, and night, called the people to prayer, in com- 
 memoration of the visit of the angel of the Lord to the Virgin 
 Mary. It was introduced into France in its modern form in the 
 \ixteentli century. 
 
EVANGELINE. 17 
 
 50 Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of in- 
 cense ascending, 
 Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace 
 
 and contentment. 
 Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 
 
 farmers, — 
 J) welt in the love of God and of man. Alike were 
 
 they free from 
 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the 
 
 vice of republics. 
 55 Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to 
 
 their windows ; 
 But their dwellings were open as day and the 
 
 hearts of the owners; 
 There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived 
 
 in abundance. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer 
 the Basin of Minas, 
 Benedict Belief ontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 
 Grand-Pre, 
 (5o Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, direct- 
 ing his household, 
 Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride 
 
 of the village. 
 Stalworth and stately in form was the man of 
 
 seventy winters; 
 Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered 
 
 with snow-flakes; 
 White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks 
 as brown as the oak-leaves. 
 65 Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen 
 summers ; 
 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 
 the thorn by the wayside, 
 2 
 
18 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the 
 
 brown shade of her tresses ! 
 Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that 
 
 feed in the meadows. 
 When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers 
 
 at noontide 
 70 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth 
 
 was the maiden. 
 Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the 
 
 bell from its turret 
 Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 
 
 with his hyssop 
 Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings 
 
 upon them, 
 Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet 
 
 of beads and her missal, 
 75 Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, 
 
 and the ear-rings 
 Brought in the olden time from France, and since, 
 
 as an heirloom, 
 Handed down from mother to child, through long 
 
 generations. 
 But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal 
 
 beauty — 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 
 
 after confession, 
 80 Homeward serenely she walked with God's bene- 
 diction upon her. 
 When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing 
 
 of exquisite music. 
 
 Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of 
 the farmer 
 Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea 
 and a shady 
 
EVANGELINE. 19 
 
 Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine 
 
 wreathing around it. 
 85 Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; 
 
 and a footpath 
 Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in 
 
 the meadow. 
 Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by 
 
 a penthouse, 
 Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the 
 
 roadside, 
 Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image 
 
 of Mary. 
 90 Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the 
 
 well with its moss-grown 
 Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough 
 
 for the horses. 
 Shielding the house from storms, on the north, 
 
 were the barns and the farm-yard. 
 There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the an- 
 tique ploughs and the harrows; 
 There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in 
 
 his feathered seraglio, 
 95 Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, 
 
 with the selfsame 
 Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent 
 
 Peter. 
 Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a 
 
 village. In each one 
 Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and 
 
 a staircase, 
 Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous 
 
 corn-loft. 
 
 93. The accent is on the first syllable of antique, where it re- 
 mains in the form antic, which once had the same general mean- 
 
 ng- 
 99. Odorous. The accent here, as well as in line 408, is upon 
 
20 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 loo There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and 
 innocent inmates 
 Murmuring ever of love; while above in the vari- 
 ant breezes 
 Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang 
 of mutation. 
 
 Thus, at peace with God and the world, the 
 farmer of Grand-Pre 
 
 Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline gov- 
 erned his household. 
 105 Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and 
 opened his missal, 
 
 Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deep- 
 est devotion ; 
 
 Happy was he who might touch her hand or the 
 hem of her garment! 
 
 Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness 
 befriended, 
 
 And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound 
 of her footsteps, 
 Uo Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the 
 knocker of iron ; 
 
 Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the 
 village, 
 
 Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance 
 as he whispered 
 
 the first syllable, where it is commonly placed ; but Milton, who 
 »f all poets had the most refined ear, writes 
 " So from the root 
 Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves 
 More airy, last the bright consummate flower 
 Spirits odorous breathes." 
 
 Par. Lost, Book V., lines 479-482. 
 
 But he also uses the more familiar accent in other passages, as 
 M An amber scent, of odorous perfume." 
 
 Samson Agonistes, 720 
 
EVANGELINE. 21 
 
 Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the 
 music. 
 
 But among all who came young Gabriel only was , 
 welcome ; 
 115 Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black- 
 smith, 
 
 Who was a mighty man in the village, and hon- 
 ored of all men ; 
 
 For since the birth of time, throughout all ages 
 and nations, 
 
 Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by 
 the people. 
 
 Basil was Benedicts friend. Their children from 
 earliest childhood 
 120 Grew up together as brother and sister; and 
 Father Felician, 
 
 Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had 
 taught them their letters 
 
 Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the 
 church and the plain-song. 
 
 But when the hymn was sung, and the daily les- 
 son completed, 
 
 Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil 
 the blacksmith. 
 25 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes 
 to behold him 
 
 Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a 
 plaything, 
 
 Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the 
 tire of the cart-wheel 
 
 Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of 
 cinders. 
 
 Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gath- 
 ering darkness 
 122 The plain-song is a monotonic recitative of the collects. 
 
22 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 1 30 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through 
 
 every cranny and crevice, 
 Warm by the forge within they watched the la- 
 boring bellows, 
 And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired 
 
 in the ashes, 
 Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going 
 
 into the chapel. 
 Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of 
 
 the eagle, 
 135 Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er 
 
 the meadow. 
 Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous 
 
 nests on the rafters, 
 Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, 
 
 which the swallow 
 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the 
 
 sight of its fledglings ; 
 Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of 
 
 the swallow I 
 140 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer 
 
 were children, 
 lie was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face 
 
 of the morning, 
 Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened 
 
 thought into action. 
 She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes 
 
 of a woman. 
 
 133. The French have another saying similar to this, that 
 ihey were guests going into the wedding. 
 
 M9. In Pluquet's Contes Populaires we are told that if one of 
 t swallow's young is blind the mother bird seeks on the shore 
 of the ocean a little stone, with which she restores its sight; and 
 he adds, "He who is fortunate enough to find that stone in a 
 swallow's nest holds a wonderful remedy." Pluquet's book 
 treats of Norman superstitions and popular traits. 
 
EVANGELINE. 23 
 
 " Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for 
 that was the sunshine 
 '45 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their 
 orchards with apples; 
 
 She too would bring to her husband's house de- 
 light and abundance, 
 
 Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of chil- 
 dren, 
 
 ii. 
 
 Now had the season returned, when the nights 
 
 grow colder and longer, 
 And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion 
 
 enters. 
 150 Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, 
 
 from the ice-bound, 
 Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical 
 
 islands. 
 Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the 
 
 winds of September 
 Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old 
 
 with the angel. 
 All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
 155 Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded 
 
 their honey 
 Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters 
 
 asserted 
 Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of 
 
 the foxes. 
 
 144. Pluquet also gives this proverbial saying: — 
 
 11 Si le soleil rit le jour Sainte-Eulalie, 
 II y aura pommes et cidre a folie." 
 
 (If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's day, there will be plenty 
 »f apples, and cider enough.) 
 Saint Eulalie's day is the 12th of February. 
 
24 LONGFELLO IV. 
 
 Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed 
 
 that beautiful season, 
 Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer 
 
 of All- Saints 1 
 l6o Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical 
 
 light; and the landscape 
 Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child* 
 
 hood. 
 Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the rest- 
 less heart of the ocean 
 Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in 
 
 harmony blended. 
 Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in 
 
 the farm -yards, 
 165 Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 
 
 of pigeons, 
 All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 
 
 and the great sun 
 Looked with the eye of love through the golden 
 
 vapors around him; 
 While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet 
 
 and yellow, 
 Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering 
 
 tree of the forest 
 170 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned 
 
 with mantles and jewels. 
 
 159 The Summer of All-Saints is our Indian Summer, All 
 Saints Day being November 1st. The French also give this 
 leason the name of St. Martin's Summer, St. Martin's Day 
 being November 11th. 
 
 170. Herodotus, in his account of Xerxes' expedition against 
 Greece, tells of a beautiful plane-tree which Xerxes found, 
 and was so enamored with that he dressed it as one might a 
 woman and placed it under the care of a guardsman (vii. 31). 
 Another writer, iElian, improving on this, says he adorned it 
 with a necklace and bracelets. 
 
EVANGELINE. 25 
 
 Now recommenced the reign of rest and affec- 
 tion and stillness. 
 Day with its burden and heat had departed, and 
 
 twilight descending 
 Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the 
 
 herds to the homestead. 
 Pawing the ground they came, and resting their 
 
 necks on each other, 
 175 And with their nostrils distended inhaling the 
 
 freshness of evening. 
 Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful 
 
 heifer, 
 Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that 
 
 waved from her collar, 
 Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human 
 
 affection. 
 Then came the shepherd back with his bleating 
 
 flocks from the seaside, 
 180 Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them 
 
 followed the watch- dog, 
 Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride 
 
 of his instinct, 
 Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and 
 
 superbly 
 Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the 
 
 stragglers ; 
 Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; 
 
 their protector, 
 [85 When from the forest at night, through the starry 
 
 silence, the wolves howled. 
 Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains 
 
 from the marshes, 
 Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its 
 
 odor. 
 Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their 
 
 manes and their fetlocks, 
 
26 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and 
 ponderous saddles, 
 190 Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tas- 
 sels of crimson, 
 
 Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy 
 with blossoms. 
 
 Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded 
 their udders 
 
 Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in reg- 
 ular cadence 
 
 Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets de- 
 scended. 
 195 Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard 
 in the farm-yard, 
 
 Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into 
 stillness ; 
 
 Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of 
 the barn-doors, 
 
 Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was 
 silent. 
 
 In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, 
 idly the farmer 
 200 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the 
 flames and the smoke-wreaths 
 
 Struggled together like foes in a burning city. 
 Behind him, 
 
 Nodding and mocking along the wall with gest- 
 ures fantastic, 
 
 Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away 
 into darkness. 
 
 193. There is a charming milkmaid's song in Tennyson's 
 drama of Queen Mary, Act III., Scene 5, where the streaming 
 *f the milk into the sounding pails is caught in the tinkling ib* 
 *f such lines as 
 
 u When you came and kissed me milking the cows." 
 
EVANGELINE. 27 
 
 Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his 
 arm-chair 
 205 Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter 
 plates on the dresser 
 
 Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of ar- 
 mies the sunshine. 
 
 Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of 
 Christmas, 
 
 Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers be- 
 fore him 
 
 Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Bur- 
 gundian vineyards. 
 2io Close at her father's side was the gentle Evange- 
 line seated, 
 
 Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the cor- 
 ner behind her. 
 
 Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its dil- 
 igent shuttle, 
 
 While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like 
 the drone of a bagpipe, 
 
 Followed the old man's song, and united the frag* 
 ments together. 
 ^15 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at in- 
 tervals ceases, 
 
 Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the 
 priest at the altar, 
 
 So, in each pause of the song, with measured mo- 
 tion the clock clicked. 
 
 Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, 
 and, suddenly lifted, 
 Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung 
 back on its hinges, 
 *so Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Ba- 
 sil the blacksmith, 
 
28 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who 
 
 was with him. 
 11 Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their 
 
 footsteps paused on the threshold, 
 " Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy 
 
 place on the settle 
 Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty 
 
 without thee; 
 225 Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the 
 
 box of tobacco; 
 Never so much thyself art thou as when, through 
 
 the curling 
 Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and 
 
 jovial face gleams 
 Round and red as the harvest moon through the 
 
 mist of the marshes. ,, 
 Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Ba- 
 sil the blacksmith, 
 230 Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the 
 
 fireside : — 
 " Benedict Belief ontaine, thou hast ever thy jest 
 
 and thy ballad! 
 Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others 
 
 are filled with 
 Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before 
 
 them. 
 Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked 
 
 up a horseshoe." 
 •35 Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evange- 
 line brought him, 
 And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he 
 
 slowly continued : — 
 li Four days now are passed since the English 
 
 ships at their anchors 
 
EVANGELINE. 29 
 
 Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon 
 
 pointed against us. 
 What their design may be is unknown; but all are 
 
 commanded 
 240 On the morrow to meet in the church, where his 
 
 Majesty's mandate 
 Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in 
 
 the mean time 
 Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the peo- 
 ple." 
 Then made answer the farmer: — " Perhaps some 
 
 friendlier purpose 
 Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the 
 
 harvests in England 
 245 By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been 
 
 blighted, 
 And from our bursting barns they would feed 
 
 their cattle and children.'' 
 1 'Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said 
 
 warmly the blacksmith, 
 Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a 
 
 sigh, he continued : — 
 u Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor 
 
 Port Royal. 
 
 239. The text of Colonel Winslow's proclamation will be 
 found in Haliburton, i. 175. 
 
 249. Louisburg, on Cape Breton, was built by the French a3 
 a military and naval station early in the eighteenth century, 
 but was taken by an expedition from Massachusetts under Gen- 
 eral Pepperell in 1745. It was restored by England to France in 
 the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, and recaptured by the English in 
 1757. Beau Sejour was a French fort upon the neck of land 
 connecting Acadia with the main-land which had just been cap- 
 tured by Winslow's forces. Port Royal, afterward called Annapo- 
 lis Royal, at the outlet of Annapolis River into the Bay of Fundy, 
 bad been disputed ground, being occupied alternately by French 
 
30 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 250 Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on 
 its outskirts, 
 
 Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weap- 
 ons of all kinds; 
 
 Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the 
 scythe of the mower." 
 
 Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jo- 
 vial farmer : — 
 255 " Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks 
 and our cornfields, 
 
 Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the 
 ocean, 
 
 Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the ene- 
 my's cannon. 
 
 Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no 
 shadow of sorrow 
 
 Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night 
 of the contract. 
 260 Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads 
 of the village 
 
 Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking 
 the glebe round about them, 
 
 Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food 
 for a twelvemonth. 
 
 Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers 
 and inkhorn. 
 
 Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy 
 of our children? M 
 265 As apart by the window she stood, with her hand 
 , in her lover's, 
 
 hid English, but in 1710 was attacked by an expedition from 
 New England, and after that held by the English government 
 and made a fortified place. 
 
EVANGELINE. 31 
 
 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her 
 
 father had spoken, 
 And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary 
 
 entered. 
 
 Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of 
 
 the ocean, 
 Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the 
 
 notary public ; 
 270 Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the 
 
 maize, hung 
 Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and 
 
 glasses with horn bows 
 Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom 
 
 supernal. 
 Father of twenty children was he, and more than 
 
 a hundred 
 Children's children rode on his knee, and heard 
 
 his great watch tick. 
 275 Four long years in the times of the war had he 
 
 languished a captive, 
 Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend 
 
 of the English. 
 
 267. A notary is an officer authorized to attest contracts or 
 writings of any kind. His authority varies in different coun- 
 tries; in France he is the necessary maker of all contracts where 
 the subject-matter exceeds 150 francs, and his instruments, 
 which are preserved and registered by himself, are the originals, 
 the parties preserving only copies. 
 
 275. King George's War, which broke out in 1744 in Cape 
 Breton, in an attack by the French upon an English garrison, 
 and closed with the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748 ; or, the 
 reference may possibly be to Queen Anne's war, 1702-1713, 
 when the French aided the Indians in their warfare with the 
 tolonists. 
 
32 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Now, though warier grown, without all guile or 
 
 suspicion, 
 Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, 
 
 and childlike. 
 He was beloved by all, and most of all by the 
 
 children ; 
 280 For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the 
 
 forest, 
 And of the goblin that came in the night to water 
 
 the horses, 
 And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child 
 
 who unchristened 
 Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the cham- 
 bers of children ; 
 And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the 
 
 stable, 
 285 And how the fever was cured by a spider shut 
 
 up in a nutshell, 
 And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved 
 
 clover and horseshoes, 
 With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the 
 
 village. 
 
 280. The Loup-garou, or were-wolf, is, according to an old 
 Buperstition especially prevalent in France, a man with power 
 to turn himself into a wolf, which he does that he may ievour 
 children. In later times the superstition passed into th« mort 
 innocent one of men having a power to charm wolves. 
 
 282. Pluquet relates this superstition, and conjectures that 
 the white, fleet ermine gave rise to it. 
 
 284. A belief still lingers among the peasantry of England, as 
 well as on the continent, that at midnight, on Christmas eve, 
 the cattle in the stalls fall down on their knees in adoration of 
 the infant Saviour, as the old legend says was done in the stabla 
 it Bethlehem. 
 
 285. In like manner a popular superstition prevailed in Eng- 
 land that ague could be cured by sealing a spider in a goose* 
 \vi\W and hanging it about the neck. 
 
EVANGELINE. 33 
 
 Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil 
 the blacksmith, 
 
 Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly ex- 
 tending his right hand, 
 290 " Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast 
 heard the talk in the village, 
 
 And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these 
 ships and their errand.' ' 
 
 Then with modest demeanor made answer the no- 
 tary public, — 
 
 " Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am 
 never the wiser; 
 
 And what their errand may be I know no better 
 than others. 
 295 Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil in- 
 tention 
 
 Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why 
 then molest us ? " 
 
 " God's name! " shouted the hasty and somewhat 
 irascible blacksmith; 
 
 1 i Must we in all things look for the how, and the 
 why, and the wherefore? 
 
 Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of 
 the strongest! " 
 300 But, without heeding his warmth, continued the 
 notary public, — 
 
 " Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally jus- 
 tice 
 
 Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often 
 consoled me, 
 
 When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at 
 Port Royal." 
 
 302. This is an old Florentine story ; in an altered form it is 
 Jip theme of Rossini's opera of La Gazza Lodra. 
 
£*4 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved 
 
 to repeat it 
 305 When his neighbors complained that any injustice 
 
 was done them. 
 " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer 
 
 remember, 
 Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Jus- 
 tice 
 Stood in the public square, upholding the scaler in 
 
 its left hand, 
 And in its right a sword, as an emblem that jus- 
 tice presided 
 310 Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and 
 
 homes of the people. 
 Even the birds had built their nests in the scales 
 
 of the balance, 
 Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the 
 
 sunshine above them. 
 But in the course of time the laws of the land 
 
 were corrupted; 
 Might took the place of right, and the weak were 
 
 oppressed, and the mighty 
 315 Ruled with an iron rod. 4 Then it chanced in a 
 
 nobleman's palace 
 That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelon^ a 
 
 suspicion 
 Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the 
 
 household. 
 She, after form of trial condemned to die on the 
 
 scaffold, 
 Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue 
 
 of Justice. 
 52c As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit 
 
 ascended, 
 
EVANGELINE. 35 
 
 Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of 
 
 the thunder 
 Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath 
 
 from its left hand 
 Down on the pavement below the clattering scales 
 
 of the balance, 
 And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a 
 
 magpie, 
 525 Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls 
 
 was inwoven." 
 Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was 
 
 ended, the blacksmith 
 Stood like a man who fain would speak, but find- 
 
 eth no language; 
 All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his 
 
 face, as the vapors 
 Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes 
 
 in the winter. 
 
 330 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on 
 
 the table, 
 Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with 
 
 home-brewed* 
 Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in 
 
 the village of Grand-Pre ; 
 While from his pocket the notary drew his papers 
 
 and inkhorn, 
 Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of 
 
 the parties, 
 335 Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep 
 
 and in cattle. 
 Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well 
 
 were completed, 
 And the great seal of the law was set like a sun 
 
 on the margin. 
 
36 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw 
 
 on the table 
 Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of 
 
 silver; 
 340 And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and 
 
 the bridegroom, 
 Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their 
 
 welfare. 
 Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed 
 
 and departed, 
 While in silence the others sat and mused by the 
 
 fireside, 
 Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of 
 
 its corner. 
 345 Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention 
 
 the old men 
 Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful ma- 
 noeuvre, 
 Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach 
 
 was made in the king-row. 
 Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a win- 
 dow's embrasure, 
 Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding 
 
 the moon rise 
 350 Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 
 
 meadows. 
 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of 
 
 heaven, 
 t Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of 
 
 the angels. 
 
 Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell 
 from the belfry 
 
 344. The word draughts is derived from the circumstance of 
 Arawing the men from one square to another. 
 
EVANGELINE. 37 
 
 Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and 
 
 straightway 
 355 Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned 
 
 in the household. • 
 
 Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on 
 
 the door-step 
 Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it 
 
 with gladness. 
 Carefully then were covered the embers that 
 
 glowed on the hearth-stone, 
 And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of 
 
 the farmer. 
 360 Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline 
 
 followed. 
 Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the 
 
 darkness, 
 », 'ghted less by the lamp than the shining face of 
 
 the maiden. 
 Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the 
 
 door of her chamber. 
 Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of 
 
 white, and its clothes-press 
 365 Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were 
 
 carefully folded 
 Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evange- 
 line woven. 
 
 354. Curfew is a corruption oi <,ouvre-feu, or cover fire. Tn 
 the Middle Ages, when police patrol at night was almost un- 
 known, it was attempted to lessen the chances of crime by mak- 
 ing it an offence against the laws to be found in the streets in 
 the night, and the curfew bell was tolled, at various hours, ac- 
 cording to the custom of the place, from seven to nine o'clock in 
 the evening. It warned honest people to lock their doors, cover 
 their fires, and go to bed. The custom still lingers in many 
 places, even in America, of ringing a bell at nine o'clock in the 
 tvening. 
 
88 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 This was the precious dower she would bring ta 
 
 her husband in marriage, 
 Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her 
 • skill as a housewife. 
 
 Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow 
 
 and radiant moonlight 
 370 Streamed through the windows, and lighted the 
 
 room, till the heart of the maiden 
 Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous 
 
 tides of the ocean. 
 Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she 
 
 stood with 
 Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of 
 
 her chamber! 
 Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of 
 
 the orchard, 
 375 Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of 
 
 her lamp and her shadow. 
 Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feel- 
 ing of sadness 
 Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds 
 
 in the moonlight 
 Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for 
 
 a moment. 
 And, as she gazed from the window, she saw 
 
 serenely the moon pass 
 38c Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star 
 
 follow her footsteps, 
 As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered 
 
 with Hagar! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the vil- 
 lage of Grand-Pre, 
 
 Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin 
 of Minas, 
 
EVANGELINE. 39 
 
 Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, 
 
 were riding at anchor. 
 385 Life had long been astir in the village, and 
 
 clamorous labor 
 Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden 
 
 gates of the morning. 
 Now from the country around, from the farms and 
 
 neighboring hamlets, 
 Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian 
 
 peasants. 
 Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from 
 
 the young folk 
 390 Made the bright air brighter, as up from the 
 
 numerous meadows, 
 Where no path could be seen but the track of 
 
 wheels in the greensward, 
 Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed 
 
 on the highway. 
 Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor 
 
 were silenced. 
 Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy 
 
 groups at the house-doors 
 395 Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped 
 
 together. 
 Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed 
 
 and feasted; 
 
 396. " Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence 
 anticipated the demands of poverty. Every misfortune was 
 relieved as it were before it could be felt, without ostentation 
 on the one hand, and without meanness on the other. It was, 
 in short, a society of brethren, every individual of which was 
 equally ready to give and to receive what he thought the com- 
 mon right of mankind. 1 ' From the Abbe* Raynal's account of 
 the Acadians. The Abbe* Guillaume Thomas Francis Raynal 
 was a French writer (1711-1796) who published A Philosophical 
 Hittoryofthe Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the 
 
iO LONGFELLO W. 
 
 For with this simple people, who lived like 
 
 brothers together, 
 All things were held in common, and what one 
 
 had was another's. 
 Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more 
 
 abundant: 
 |oo For Evangeline stood among the guests of her 
 
 father; 
 Bright was her face with smiles, and words of 
 
 welcome and gladness 
 Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup 
 
 as she gave it. 
 
 Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the 
 
 orchard, 
 Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of 
 
 betrothal. 
 405 There in the shade of the porch were the priest 
 
 and the notary seated; 
 There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the 
 
 blacksmith. 
 Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press 
 
 and the beehives, 
 Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of 
 
 hearts and of waistcoats. 
 Shadow and light from the leaves alternately 
 
 played on his snow-white 
 410 Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face 
 
 of the fiddler 
 Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown 
 
 from the embers. 
 
 East and West Indies in which he included also some account 
 of Canada and Nova Scotia. His picture of life among the 
 Acadians, somewhat highly colored, is the source from which 
 after writers have drawn then- Vr^wledge of Acadian manners* 
 
EVANGELINE. 41 
 
 Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of 
 his fiddle, 
 
 Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de 
 Dunkerque, 
 
 And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the 
 music. 
 415 Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzy- 
 ing dances 
 
 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the 
 meadows ; 
 
 Old folk and young together, and children mingled 
 among them. 
 
 413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres was a song written by 
 Ducauroi, maitre de chapelle of Henri IV., the words of which 
 are: — 
 
 Vous connaissez Cyb&le, 
 
 Qui sut fixer le Temps; 
 
 On la disait fort belle, 
 
 Meme dans ses vieux ans- 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Cette divinite*, quoique deja grand' mere, 
 Avait les yeux doux, le teint frais 
 Avait meme certains attraits 
 Fermes comme la Terre. 
 
 Le Carillon de Dunkerque was a popular song to a tune 
 played on the Dunkirk chimes. The words are : — 
 
 Imprudent, t6m6raire 
 A l'instant, je l'espere 
 Dans mon juste courroux, 
 Tu vas tomber sous mes coups ! 
 
 — Je brave ta menace 
 
 — istre moi ! quelle audace ! 
 Avance done, poltron ! 
 
 Tu trembles ? non, non, non. 
 
 — J'etouffe de colere ! 
 
 — Je ris de ta colere. 
 
 The music to which the old man sang these songs will be found 
 in La CM du Caveau, by Pierre Capelle, Nos. 564: and 739. 
 t'aris: A. Cotelle. 
 
42 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Bene- 
 dict's daughter! 
 
 Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the 
 blacksmith ! 
 
 420 So passed the morning away. Andlo! with a 
 summons sonorous 
 
 Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the 
 meadows a drum beat. 
 
 Thronged ere long was the church with men. 
 Without, in the churchyard, 
 
 Waited the women. They stood by the graves, 
 and hung on the headstones 
 
 Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh 
 from the forest. 
 425 Then came the guard from the ships, and march- 
 ing proudly among them 
 
 Entered the sacred portal. With loud and disso- 
 nant clangor 
 
 Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceil- 
 ing and casement, — 
 
 Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous 
 portal 
 
 Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will 
 of the soldiers. 
 430 Then uprose their commander, and spake from 
 the steps of the altar, 
 
 Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the 
 royal commission. 
 
 44 You are convened this day," he said, 44 by his 
 Majesty's orders. 
 
 432. Colonel Winslow has preserved in his Diary the speech 
 which he delivered to the assembled Acadians, and it is copied 
 by Haliburton in his History of Nova Scotia, i. 166, 167. 
 
EVANGELINE. 43 
 
 Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have 
 
 answered his kindness 
 Let your own hearts reply ! To iny natural make 
 
 and my temper 
 ^35 Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must 
 
 be grievous. 
 Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of 
 
 our monarch: 
 Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and 
 
 cattle of all kinds 
 Forfeited be to the crown; and that you your- 
 selves from this province 
 Be transported to other lands. God grant you 
 
 may dwell there 
 440 Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable 
 
 people ! 
 Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majes- 
 ty's pleasure! " 
 As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of 
 
 summer, 
 Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of 
 
 the hailstones 
 Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and 
 
 shatters his windows, 
 4.45 Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with 
 
 thatch from the house-roofs, 
 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their 
 
 enclosures ; 
 So on the hearts of the people descended the words 
 
 of the speaker. 
 Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, 
 
 and then rose 
 Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and 
 
 anger, 
 450 And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to 
 
 the door- way. 
 
±4 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce 
 
 imprecations 
 Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er 
 
 the heads of the others 
 Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil 
 
 the blacksmith, 
 As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the bil- 
 lows. 
 %55 Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; 
 
 and wildly he shouted, — 
 "Down with the tyrants of England! we never 
 
 have sworn them allegiance ! 
 Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our 
 
 homes and our harvests! " 
 More he fain would have said, but the merciless 
 
 hand of a soldier 
 Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him 
 
 down to the pavement. 
 
 4.60 In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry 
 
 contention, 
 Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father 
 
 Felician 
 Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the 
 
 steps of the altar. 
 Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he 
 
 awed into silence 
 All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to 
 
 his people; 
 I65 Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents meas- 
 ured and mournful 
 Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly 
 
 the clock strikes. 
 "What is this that ye do, my children? whaC mad* 
 
 ness has seized you ? 
 
EVANGELINE. 45 
 
 Forty years of my life have I labored among you, 
 
 and taught you, 
 Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one 
 
 another ! 
 \yo Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and 
 
 prayers and privations? 
 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and 
 
 forgiveness ? 
 This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and 
 
 would you profane it 
 Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing 
 
 with hatred? 
 Lo ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is 
 
 gazing upon you! 
 475 See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and 
 
 holy compassion! 
 Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, * O 
 
 Father, forgive them ! ' 
 Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the 
 
 wicked assail us, 
 Let us repeat it now, and say, * O Father forgive 
 
 them!'" 
 Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the 
 
 hearts of his people 
 4.80 Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the 
 
 passionate outbreak, 
 While they repeated his prayer, and said, u O 
 
 Father, forgive them ! ' ' 
 
 Then came the evening service. The tapers 
 
 gleamed from the altar ; 
 Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and 
 
 the people responded, 
 Not with their lips alone, bat their hearts ; and 
 
 the Ave Maria 
 
16 LONGFELl.0 W. 
 
 485 Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their soula, 
 with devotion translated, 
 Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending 
 to heaven. 
 
 Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings 
 of ill, and on all sides 
 
 Wandered, wailing, from house to house the 
 women and children. 
 
 Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with 
 her right hand 
 490 Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, 
 that, descending, 
 
 Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, 
 and roofed each 
 
 Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and embla- 
 zoned its windows. 
 
 Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth 
 on the table; 
 
 There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fra- 
 grant with wild-flowers; 
 495 There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese 
 fresh brought from the dairy ; 
 
 And at the head of the board the great arm-chair 
 of the farmer. 
 
 Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as 
 the sunset 
 
 Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad 
 ambrosial meadows. 
 
 Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had 
 fallen, 
 500 And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celes- 
 tial ascended, — 
 
 492. To emblazon is literally to adorn anything with ensigns 
 aimorial. It was often the custom to work these ensigns into 
 Qie design of painted windows. 
 
EVANGELINE. 47 
 
 Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgive- 
 ness, and patience! 
 
 Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the 
 village, 
 
 Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts 
 of the women, 
 
 As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps 
 they departed, 
 5 C 5 Urged by their household cares, and the weary 
 feet of their children. 
 
 Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, 
 glimmering vapors 
 
 Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet de- 
 scending from Sinai. 
 
 Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus 
 sounded. 
 
 Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church 
 Evangeline lingered. 
 510 All was silent within; and in vain at the door and 
 the windows 
 
 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, over- 
 come by emotion, 
 
 * ' Gabriel ! ' ' cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; 
 but no answer 
 
 Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloom- 
 ier grave of the living. 
 
 Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless 
 house of her father. 
 515 Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board 
 was the supper untasted, 
 
 Empty and drear was each room, and haunted 
 with phantoms of terror. 
 
 Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of 
 her chamber. 
 
48 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 In the dead of the night she heard the disconso- 
 late rain fall 
 
 Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree 
 by the window. 
 52c Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the 
 echoing thunder 
 
 Told her that God was in heaven, and governed 
 the world he created ! 
 
 Then she remembered the tale she had heard of 
 the justice of Heaven; 
 
 Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully 
 slumbered till morning. 
 
 Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on 
 
 the fifth day 
 525 Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of 
 
 the farm-house. 
 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful 
 
 procession, 
 Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the 
 
 Acadian women, 
 Driving in ponderous wains their household goods 
 
 to the sea- shore, 
 Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on 
 
 their dwellings, 
 530 Ere they were shut from sight by the winding 
 
 road and the woodland. 
 Close at their sides their children ran, and urged 
 
 on the oxen, 
 While in their little hands they clasped some frag- 
 ments of playthings. 
 
 Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried 
 and there on the sea-beach 
 
EVANGELINE. 49 
 
 Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the 
 peasants. 
 535 All day long between the shore and the ships did 
 the boats ply; 
 
 All day long the wains came laboring down from 
 the village. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to 
 his setting, 
 
 Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums 
 from the churchyard. 
 
 Thither the women and children thronged. On a 
 sudden the church-doors 
 540 Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching 
 in gloomy procession 
 
 Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Aca- 
 dian farmers. 
 
 Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their 
 homes and their country, 
 
 Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are 
 weary and wayworn, 
 
 So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants 
 descended 
 545 Down from the church to the shore, amid their 
 wives and their daughters. 
 
 Foremost the young men came; and, raising to- 
 gether their voices, 
 
 Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic 
 Missions : — 
 
 " Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible 
 fountain ! 
 
 Fill our hearts this dav with strength and submis- 
 sion and patience ! " 
 550 Then the old men, as they marched, and the 
 women that stood by the wayside 
 4 
 
50 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Joined in the. sacred psalm, and the birds in the 
 sunshine above them 
 
 Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spir- 
 its departed. 
 
 Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited 
 
 in silence, 
 Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hou* 
 
 of affliction, — 
 555 Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession 
 
 approached her, 
 And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with 
 
 emotion. 
 Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running 
 
 to meet him, 
 Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his 
 
 shoulder, and whispered, — 
 M Gabriel 1 be of good cheer ! for if we love one 
 
 another 
 560 .Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mis- 
 chances may happen! " 
 Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly 
 
 paused, for her father 
 Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed 
 
 was his aspect! 
 Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire 
 
 from his eye, and his footstep 
 Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy 
 
 heart in his bosom. 
 565 But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck 
 
 and embraced him, 
 Speaking words of endearment where words of 
 
 comfort availed not. 
 Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that 
 
 mournful procession. 
 
EVANGELINE. 51 
 
 There disorder prevailed, and tne tumult and 
 stir of embarking. 
 
 Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the con- 
 fusion 
 570 Wives were torn from their husbands, and moth- 
 ers, too late, saw their children 
 
 Left on the land, extending their arms, with wild- 
 est entreaties. 
 
 So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel 
 carried, 
 
 While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood 
 with her father. 
 
 Half the task was not done when the sun went 
 down, and the twilight 
 $75 Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the 
 refluent ocean 
 
 Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the 
 sand-beach 
 
 Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the 
 slippery sea- weed. 
 
 Farther back in the midst of the household goods 
 and the wagons, 
 
 Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
 580 All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels 
 near them, 
 
 Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian 
 farmers. 
 
 Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellow- 
 ing ocean, 
 
 Dragging adown the beach tne rattling pebbles, 
 and leaving 
 
 Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of 
 the sailors. 
 585 Then, as the night descended, the herds returned 
 from their pastures; 
 
52 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk 
 
 from their udders; 
 Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known 
 
 bars of the farm-yard, — 
 Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the 
 
 hand of the milkmaid. 
 Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no 
 
 Angelus sounded. 
 590 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no 
 
 lights from the windows. 
 
 But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires 
 
 had been kindled, 
 Built of the drift>wood thrown on the sands from 
 
 wrecks in the tempest. 
 Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces 
 
 were gathered, 
 Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the 
 
 crying of children. 
 595 Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth 
 
 in his parish, 
 Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and bless- 
 ing and cheering, 
 Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate 
 
 sea-shore. 
 Thus he approached the place where Evangeline 
 
 sat with her father, 
 And in the flickering light beheld the face of the 
 
 old man, 
 jOO Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either 
 
 thought or emotion, 
 E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands 
 
 have been taken. 
 Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses 
 
 to cheer him. 
 
EVANGELINE. 53 
 
 Vainly offered him food; yet lie moved not, he 
 
 looked not, he spake not, 
 But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flicker 
 
 ing fire-light. 
 605 " Benedicite ! " murmured the priest, in tones of 
 
 compassion. 
 More he fain would have said, but his heart was 
 
 full, and his accents 
 Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a 
 
 child on a threshold, 
 Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful 
 
 presence of sorrow. 
 Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head 
 
 of the maiden, 
 610 Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that 
 
 above them 
 Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs 
 
 and sorrows of mortals. 
 Then sat he down at her side, and they wept to- 
 
 gether in silence. 
 
 Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in au- 
 tumn the blood-red 
 Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er 
 the horizon 
 615 Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mount- 
 ain and meadow, 
 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge 
 shadows together. 
 
 615. The Titans were giant deities in Greek mythology who 
 attempted to deprive Saturn of the sovereignty of heaven, and 
 were driven down into Tartarus by Jupiter the son of Saturn, 
 who hurled thunderbolts at them. Briareus, the hundred- 
 landed giant, was in mythology of the same parentage as the 
 Titans, but was not classed with them. 
 
54 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs 
 
 of the village, 
 Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships 
 
 that lay in the roadstead. 
 Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of 
 
 flame were 
 620 Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like 
 
 the quivering hands of a martyr. 
 Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burn- 
 ing thatch, and, uplifting, 
 Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from 
 
 a hundred house-tops 
 Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame 
 
 intermingled. 
 
 These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the 
 shore and on shipboard. 
 625 Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in 
 their anguish, 
 
 u We shall behold no more our homes in the vil- 
 lage of Grand-Pre ! " 
 
 Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the 
 farm-yards, 
 
 Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the low- 
 ing of cattle 
 
 621. Gleeds. Hot, burning coals; a Chaucerian word: 
 
 ' ' And wafres piping hoot out of the gleede." 
 
 Canterbury Tales, 1. 3379. 
 
 The burning of the houses was in accordance with the instruc- 
 tions of the Governor to Colonel Winslow, in case he should 
 fail in collecting all the inhabitants: "You must proceed by the 
 most vigorous measures possible, not only in compelling them 
 to embark, but in depriving those who shall escape of all means 
 of shelter or support by burning their houses, and by destroying 
 everything that may afford them the means of subsistence in 
 ♦he country." 
 
EVANGELINE. 55 
 
 Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of 
 
 dogs interrupted. 
 630 Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the 
 
 sleeping encampments 
 Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt 
 
 the Nebraska, 
 When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with 
 
 the speed of the whirlwind, 
 Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to 
 
 the river. 
 Such was the sound that arose on the night, as 
 
 the herds and the horses 
 635 Broke through their folds and fences, and madly 
 
 rushed o'er the meadows. 
 
 Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, 
 
 the priest and the maiden 
 Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and 
 
 widened before them; 
 And as they turned at length to speak to their 
 
 silent companion, 
 Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched 
 
 abroad on the sea-shore 
 640 Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had 
 
 departed. 
 Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and 
 
 the maiden 
 Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in 
 
 her terror. 
 Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head 
 
 on his bosom. 
 Through the long nignt she lay in deep, oblivious 
 
 slumber; 
 E45 And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a 
 
 multitude near her. 
 
56 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournkrffy 
 
 gazing upon her, 
 Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest 
 
 compassion. 
 Still the blaze of the burning village illumined 
 
 the landscape, 
 Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the 
 
 faces around her, 
 650 And like the day of doom it seemed to her waver- 
 ing senses. 
 Then a familiar' voice she heard, as it said to the 
 
 people, — 
 * ' Let us bury him here by the sea. When a 
 
 happier season 
 Brings us again to our homes from the unknown 
 
 land of our exile, 
 Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the 
 
 churchyard. " 
 655 Such were the words of the priest. And there in 
 
 haste by the sea-side, 
 Having the glare of the burning village for funeral 
 
 torches, 
 But without bell or book, they buried the farmer 
 
 of Grand-Pre\ 
 And as the voice of the priest repeated the serv- 
 ice of sorrow, 
 Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast 
 
 congregation, 
 660 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar 
 
 with the dirges. 
 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the 
 
 waste of the ocean, 
 
 557. The bell was tolled to mark the passage of the soul into 
 »he other world; the book was the service book. The phrase 
 
 bell, book, or candle " was used in referring to excommunica 
 Uon. 
 
EVANGELINE. 57 
 
 With the first dawn of the day, came heaving 
 
 and hurrying landward. 
 Then recommenced once more the stir and noise 
 
 of embarking; 
 And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out 
 
 of the harbor, 
 665 Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and 
 
 the village in ruins. 
 
 PAJRT THE SECOND. 
 1. 
 
 Many a weary year had passed since the burning 
 of Grand-Pre*, 
 
 When on the falling tide the freighted vessels de- 
 parted, 
 
 Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into 
 exile, 
 
 Exile without an end, and without an example in 
 story. 
 670 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadian s 
 landed; 
 
 Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when 
 the wind from the northeast 
 
 Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the 
 Banks of Newfoundland. 
 
 Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered 
 from city to city, 
 
 I rom the cold lakes of the North to sultry South- 
 ern savannas, — 
 S75 From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands 
 where the Father of Waters 
 
 Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them 
 down to the ocean, 
 
08 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of 
 
 the mammoth. 
 Friends they sought and homes; and many, de- 
 spairing, heart-broken, 
 Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a 
 
 friend nor a fireside. 
 680 Written their history stands on tablets of stone in 
 
 the churchyards. 
 Long among them was seen a maiden who waited 
 
 and wandered, 
 Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering 
 
 all things. 
 Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her 
 
 extended, 
 Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with 
 
 its pathway 
 685 Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed 
 
 and suffered before her, 
 Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead 
 
 and abandoned, 
 As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is 
 
 marked by 
 Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach 
 
 in the sunshine. 
 Something there was in her life incomplete, im- 
 perfect, unfinished; 
 690 As if a morning of June, with all its music and 
 sunshine, 
 Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly 
 
 descended 
 
 677. Bones of the mastodon, or mammoth, have been found 
 scattered all ever the territory of the United States and Canada, 
 but the greatest number have been collected in the Salt Licka 
 of Kentucky, and in the States of Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri 
 «nd Alatama. 
 
EVANGELINE. , 59 
 
 Into the east again, from whence it late had 
 
 arisen. 
 Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by 
 
 the fever within her, 
 Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst 
 
 of the spirit, 
 695 She would commence again her endless search and 
 
 endeavor; 
 Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on 
 
 the crosses and tombstones, 
 Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that 
 
 perhaps in its bosom 
 He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber 
 
 beside him. 
 Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate 
 
 whisper, 
 700 Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her 
 
 forward. 
 Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her 
 
 beloved and known him, 
 But it was long ago, in some far-off place or for- 
 gotten. 
 " Gabriel Lajeunesse! " they said; " Oh, yes! we 
 
 have seen him. 
 He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have 
 
 gone to the prairies ; 
 705 Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters 
 
 and trappers.' ' 
 
 699. Observe the diminution in this line, by which one is led 
 to the airy hand in the next. 
 
 705. The coureurs-des-bois formed a class of men very early in 
 Canadian history, produced by the exigencies of the fur-trade. 
 They were French by birth, but by long affiliation with the 
 fndians and adoption of their customs had become half-civilized 
 >agrants, whose chief vocation was conducting the canoes of 
 •■he traders along the lakes and rivers of the interior. Bush- 
 
60 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 "Gabriel Lajeunesse! " said others; "Oh, yea! 
 
 we have seen him. 
 He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 
 Then would they say, ■ ' Dear child ! why dream 
 
 and wait for him longer ? 
 Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? 
 
 others 
 710 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits 
 
 as loyal? 
 Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who 
 
 has loved thee 
 Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand 
 
 and be happy! 
 Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's 
 
 tresses. 
 Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but 
 
 sadly, lt I cannot! 
 715 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my 
 
 hand, and not elsewhere. 
 For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 
 
 illumines the pathway, 
 Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden 
 
 in darkness." 
 Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-con 
 
 fessor, 
 
 rangers is the English equivalent. They played an important 
 part in the Indian wars, but were nearly as lawless as the Indians 
 themselves. The reader will find them frequently referred to in 
 Parkman's histories, especially in The Conspiracy of Pontiac, 
 The Discovery of the Great West, and Frontenac and New 
 France under Louis XI V. 
 
 707. A voyageur is a river boatman, and is a term applied 
 usually to Canadians. 
 
 713. St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Catherine of Siena 
 were both celebrated for their vows of virginity. Hence th«? 
 saying to braid St. Catherine's tresses,oi one devoted to a single 
 life. 
 
EVANGELINE. 61 
 
 Said, with a smile, " O daughter! thy God thus 
 
 speaketh within thee ! 
 720 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was 
 
 wasted ; 
 If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, 
 
 returning 
 Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill 
 
 them full of refreshment ; 
 That which the fountain sends forth returns again 
 
 to the fountain. 
 Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy 
 
 work of affection ! 
 725 Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient en- 
 durance is godlike. 
 Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the 
 
 heart is made godlike, 
 Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered 
 
 more worthy of heaven! " 
 Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline 
 
 labored and waited. 
 Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of 
 
 the ocean, 
 730 But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 
 
 whispered, " Despair not!" 
 Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer- 
 less discomfort, 
 Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns 
 
 of existence. 
 Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's 
 
 footsteps ; — 
 Not through each devious path, each changeful 
 
 year of existence; 
 735 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course 
 
 through the valley: 
 Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam 
 
 of its water 
 
62 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Here and there, in some open space, and at inter- 
 vals only ; 
 
 Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan 
 glooms that conceal it, 
 
 Though he behold it not, he can hear its contin- 
 uous murmur ; 
 ;4o Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches 
 an outlet. 
 
 ii. 
 
 It was the month of May. Far down the Beauti- 
 ful River, 
 
 Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the 
 Wabash, 
 
 Into the golden stream of the broad and swift 
 Mississippi, 
 
 Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Aca- 
 dian boatmen. 
 745 It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from 
 the shipwrecked 
 
 Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to- 
 gether, 
 
 Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a 
 common misfortune; 
 
 Men and women and children, who, guided by 
 hope or by hearsay, 
 
 Sought for their kith and their kin among the 
 few-acred farmers 
 750 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair 
 Opelousas. 
 
 741. The Iroquois gave to this river the name of Ohio, or the 
 Beautiful River, and La Salle, who was the first European to 
 discover it, preserved the name so that it very early was trans- 
 ferred to maps. 
 
 750. Between the 1st of January and the 13th of May, 1765, 
 about six hundred and fifty Acadians had arrived at Ne* 
 
EVANGELINE. 63 
 
 With them Evangeline went, and her guide, 
 
 the Father Felician. 
 Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 
 
 sombre with forests, 
 Day after day they glided adown the turbulent 
 
 river ; 
 Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped 
 
 on its borders. 
 755 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, 
 
 where plumelike 
 Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they 
 
 swept with the current, 
 Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery 
 
 sand-bars 
 Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves 
 
 of their margin, 
 Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of 
 
 pelicans waded. 
 760 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores o* 
 
 the river, 
 Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant 
 
 gardens, 
 Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins 
 
 and dove-cots. 
 They were approaching the region were reigns 
 
 perpetual summer, 
 
 Orleans. Louisiana had been ceded by France to Spain in 
 1762, but did not really pass under the control of the Spanish 
 until 1769. The existence of a French population attracted the 
 pandering Acadians, and they were sent by the authorities to 
 form settlements in Attakapas and Opelousas. They afterward 
 formed settlements on both sides of the Mississippi from the 
 German Coast up to Baton Rouge, and even as high as Point* 
 Coupe'e. Hence the name of Acadian Coast, which a portion o* 
 the banks of the river still bears. See Gayarre^s History oj 
 Louisiana: The French Dominion, vol. ii. 
 
64 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of 
 orange and citron, 
 765 Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the 
 eastward. 
 
 They, too, swerved from their course; and, enter- 
 ing the Bayou of Plaquemine, 
 
 Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious 
 waters, 
 
 Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 
 direction. 
 
 Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 
 boughs of the cypress 
 770 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid- 
 air 
 
 Waved like banners that hang on the walls of an- 
 cient cathedrals. 
 
 Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save 
 by the herons 
 
 Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning 
 at sunset, 
 
 Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with de- 
 moniac laughter. 
 775 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed 
 on the water, 
 
 Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sus- 
 taining the arches, 
 
 Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 
 through chinks in a ruin. 
 
 Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all 
 things around them; 
 
 And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of 
 wonder and sadness, — 
 780 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot 
 be compassed. 
 
 As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of 
 the prairies, 
 
EVANGELINE. 65 
 
 Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrink- 
 ing mimosa, 
 
 So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings 
 of evil, 
 
 Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of 
 doom has attained it. 
 785 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, 
 that faintly 
 
 Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on 
 through the moonlight. 
 
 It was the thought of her brain that assumed the 
 shape of a phantom. 
 
 Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wan- 
 dered before her, 
 
 And every stroke of the oar now brought him 
 nearer and nearer.* 
 
 790 Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose 
 one of the oarsmen, 
 
 And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad- 
 venture 
 
 •Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew 
 a blast on his bugle. 
 
 Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors 
 leafy the blast rang, 
 
 Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to 
 the forest. 
 795 Soundless above them the banners of moss just 
 stirred to the music. 
 
 Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the dis- 
 tance, 
 
 Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverber- 
 ant branches; 
 
 But not a voice replied ; hd answer came from the 
 darkness ; 
 5 
 
66 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of 
 
 pain was the silence. 
 800 Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed 
 
 through the midnight, 
 Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian 
 
 boat-songs, 
 Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian 
 
 rivers, 
 While through the night were heard the mysteri 
 
 ous sounds of the desert, 
 Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the 
 
 forest, 
 805 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar 
 
 of the grim alligator. 
 
 Thus ere another noon they emerged from the 
 shades ; and before them 
 
 Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atcha- 
 falaya. 
 
 Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight un- 
 dulations 
 
 Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in 
 beauty, the lotus 
 810 Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the 
 boatmen. 
 
 Faint was the air with the odorous breath of 
 magnolia blossoms, 
 
 And with the heat of noon ; and numberless syl- 
 van islands, 
 
 Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming 
 hedges of roses, 
 
 Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to 
 slumber. 
 815 Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were 
 suspended. 
 
EVANGELINE. 67 
 
 Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew 
 by the margin, 
 
 Safely their boat was moored ; and, scattered about 
 on the greensward, 
 
 Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travel- 
 lers slumbered. 
 
 Over them vast and high extended the cope of a 
 cedar. 
 320 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower 
 and the grapevine 
 
 Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of 
 Jacob, 
 
 On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, 
 descending, 
 
 Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from 
 blossom to blossom. 
 
 Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slum- 
 bered beneath it. 
 825 Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of 
 an opening heaven 
 
 Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions 
 celestial. 
 
 Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless isl- 
 ands, 
 
 Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the 
 water, 
 
 Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters 
 and trappers. 
 330 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the 
 bison and beaver. 
 
 At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thought- 
 ful and careworn. 
 
 Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, 
 and a sadness 
 
S8 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legi- 
 bly written. 
 
 Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy 
 and restless, 
 835 Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and 
 of sorrow. 
 
 Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of 
 the island, 
 
 But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of 
 palmettos ; 
 
 So that they saw not the boat, where it lay con- 
 cealed in the willows ; 
 
 All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and un- 
 seen, were the sleepers ; 
 840 Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- 
 bering maiden. 
 
 Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud 
 on the prairie. 
 
 After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died 
 in the distance, 
 
 As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and 
 the maiden 
 
 Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father 
 Felician ! 
 B45 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel 
 wanders. 
 
 Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague supersti- 
 tion? 
 
 Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to 
 my spirit?" 
 
 Then, with a blush, she added, " Alas for my 
 credulous fancy! 
 
 Unto ears like thine such words as these have no 
 meaning.' * 
 850 But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled 
 as he answered, — 
 
EVANGELINE. 69 
 
 " Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they 
 
 to me without meaning. 
 Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats 
 
 on the surface 
 Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the an- 
 chor is hidden. 
 Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the 
 
 world calls illusions. 
 855 Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the 
 
 southward. 
 On the bands of the Teche, are the towns of St. 
 
 Maur and St. Martin. 
 There the long-wandering bride shall be given 
 
 again to her bridegroom, 
 There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and 
 
 his sheepfold. 
 Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests 
 
 of fruit-trees ; 
 860 Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest 
 
 of heavens 
 Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls 
 
 of the forest. 
 They who dwell there have named it the Eden ot 
 
 Louisiana.' ' 
 
 With these words of cheer they arose and con- 
 tinued their journey. 
 
 Softly the evening came. The sun from the west- 
 ern horizon 
 )>6$ Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er 
 the landscape ; 
 
 Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and 
 forest 
 
 Seemed all on Are at the touch, and melted and 
 min gled together. 
 
70 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of 
 
 silver, 
 Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the 
 
 motionless water. 
 870 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible 
 
 sweetness. 
 Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains 
 
 of feeling 
 Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and 
 
 waters around her. 
 Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, 
 
 wildest of singers, 
 Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er 
 
 the water, 
 875 Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious 
 
 music, 
 That the whole air and the woods and the waves 
 
 seemed silent to listen. 
 Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then 
 
 soaring to madness- 
 Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 
 
 Bacchantes. 
 Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low 
 
 lamentation ; 
 880 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them 
 
 abroad in derision, 
 As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 
 
 tree-tops 
 Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 
 
 on the branches. 
 With such a prelude as this, and hearts that 
 
 throbbed with emotion, 
 
 878. The Bacchantes were worshippers of the god Bacchus, 
 who in Greek mythology presided over the vine and its fruits 
 They gave themselves up to all manner of excess and their 
 Bongs and dances were to wild, intoxicating measures. 
 
EVANGELINE. 71 
 
 Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows 
 through the green Opelousas, 
 885 And, through the amber air, above the crest of 
 the woodland, 
 
 Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neigh- 
 boring dwelling; — 
 
 Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant low- 
 ing of cattle. 
 
 Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by 
 oaks, from whose branches 
 
 Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe 
 flaunted, 
 890 Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets 
 at Yule-tide, 
 
 Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herds- 
 man. A garden 
 
 Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant 
 blossoms, 
 
 Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself 
 was of timbers 
 
 Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted 
 together. 
 895 Large and low was the roof ; and on slender col- 
 umns supported, 
 
 Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spa- 
 cious veranda, 
 
 Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended 
 around it. 
 
 At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the 
 garden, 
 
 Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual 
 symbol, 
 
72 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 900 Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions 
 
 of rivals. 
 Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow 
 
 and sunshine 
 Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself 
 
 was in shadow, 
 And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly 
 
 expanding 
 Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke 
 
 rose. 
 905 In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, 
 
 ran a pathway 
 Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of 
 
 the limitless prairie, 
 Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly de- 
 scending. 
 Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy 
 
 canvas 
 Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless 
 
 calm in the tropics, 
 910 Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of 
 
 grapevines. 
 
 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf 
 
 of the prairie, 
 Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and 
 
 stirrups, 
 Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of 
 
 deerskin. 
 Broad and brown was the face that from under 
 
 the Spanish sombrero 
 915 Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look 
 
 of its master. 
 Round about him were numberless herds of kine ; 
 
 that were grazing 
 
EVANGELINE. 73 
 
 Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory 
 
 freshness 
 That uprose from the river, and spread itself over 
 
 the landscape. 
 Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and 
 
 expanding 
 920 Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that 
 
 resounded 
 Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp 
 
 air of the evening. 
 Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of 
 
 the cattle 
 Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of 
 
 ocean. 
 Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed 
 
 o'er the prairie, 
 925 And the whole mass became a_ cloud, a shade in 
 
 the distance. 
 Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, 
 
 through the gate of the garden 
 Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden ad- 
 vancing to meet him. 
 Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amaze- 
 
 . ment, and forward 
 Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of 
 
 wonder; 
 930 When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil 
 
 the blacksmith. 
 Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the 
 
 garden. 
 There in an arbor cf roses with endless question 
 
 and answer 
 Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their 
 
 friendly embraces, 
 Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent 
 
 and thoughtful. 
 
74 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 935 Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark 
 doubts and misgivings 
 
 Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, some- 
 what embarrassed, 
 
 Broke the silence and said, " If you came by the 
 Atchafalaya, 
 
 How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's 
 boat on the bayous? " 
 
 Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a 
 shade passed. 
 940 Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a 
 tremulous accent, 
 
 " Gone? is Gabriel gone? " and, concealing her 
 face on his shoulder, 
 
 All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she 
 wept and lamented. 
 
 Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew 
 blithe as he said it, — 
 
 4 ' Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he 
 departed. 
 Q45 Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds 
 and my horses. 
 
 Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, 
 his spirit 
 
 Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful 
 ever, 
 
 Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troub- 
 les, 
 Qjo He at length had become so tedious to men and 
 to maidens, 
 
 Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought 
 me, and sent him 
 
 Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with 
 the Spaniards. 
 
EVANGELINE. 75 
 
 Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the 
 
 Ozark Mountains, 
 Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping 
 
 the beaver. 
 955 Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the 
 
 fugitive lover; 
 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the 
 
 streams are against him. 
 Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew 
 
 of the morning, 
 We will follow him fast, and bring him back to 
 
 his prison.'' 
 
 Then glad voices were heard, and up from the 
 banks of the river, 
 960 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Mi- 
 chael the fiddler. 
 
 Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god 
 on Olympus, 
 
 Having no other care than dispensing music to 
 mortals. 
 
 Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his 
 fiddle. 
 
 "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Aca- 
 dian minstrel! " 
 965 As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; 
 and straightway 
 
 Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greet- 
 ing the old man 
 
 Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, 
 enraptured, 
 
 Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and 
 gossips, 
 
 Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers 
 and daughters. 
 
76 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 970 Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the 
 
 ci-devant blacksmith, 
 All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal 
 
 demeanor ; 
 Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil 
 
 and the climate, 
 And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were 
 
 his who would take them ; 
 Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would 
 
 go and do likewise. 
 975 Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the 
 
 breezy veranda, 
 Entered the hall of the house, where already the 
 
 supper of Basil 
 Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted 
 
 together. 
 
 Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness de- 
 scended. 
 All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape 
 with silver, 
 980 Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; 
 but within doors, 
 Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in 
 
 the glimmering lamplight. 
 Then from his station aloft, at the head of the 
 
 table, the herdsman 
 Poured forth his heart and his wine together in 
 
 endless profusion. 
 Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Nat- 
 chitoches tobacco, 
 985 Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and 
 . smiled as they listened : — 
 " Welcome once more, my friends, who long have 
 been friendless and homeless, 
 
EVANGELINE. 77 
 
 Welcome once more to a home, that is better per- 
 chance than the old one! 
 
 Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like 
 the rivers ; 
 • Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the 
 farmer ; 
 990 Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, 
 as a keel through the water. 
 
 All the year round the orange-groves are in blos- 
 som; and grass grows 
 
 More in a single night than a whole Canadian 
 summer. 
 
 Here, too, numberless herds run wild and un- 
 claimed in the prairies ; 
 
 Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and 
 forests of timber 
 995 With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed 
 into houses. 
 
 After your houses are built, and your fields are 
 yellow with harvests, 
 
 No King George of England shall drive you away 
 from your homesteads, 
 
 Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing 
 your farms and your cattle." 
 
 Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud 
 from his nostrils, 
 iooo While his huge, brown hand came thundering 
 down on the table, 
 
 So that the guests all started; and Father Feli- 
 cian, astounded, 
 
 Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way 
 to his nostrils. 
 
 But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were 
 milder and gayer, — 
 
 11 Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware 
 of the fever I 
 
78 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 1005 For it is not like that of our cold Acadian cli- 
 mate, 
 
 Cured by wearing a spider bung round one's neck 
 in a nutsbell! " 
 
 Tben there were voices heard at the door,- and 
 footsteps approaching 
 
 Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the 
 breezy veranda. 
 
 It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian 
 planters, 
 loio Who had been summoned all to the house of 
 Basil the herdsman. 
 
 Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and 
 neighbors : 
 
 Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who 
 before were as strangers, 
 
 Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends 
 to each other, 
 
 Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country 
 together. 
 10 1 5 But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, 
 proceeding 
 
 From the accordant strings of Michael's melodi- 
 ous fiddle, 
 
 Broke up all further speech. Away, like chil- 
 dren delighted, 
 
 All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves 
 to the maddening 
 
 Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and 
 swayed to the music, 
 I020 Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of 
 fluttering garments. 
 
 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the 
 priest and the herdsman 
 
EVANGELINE. 79 
 
 Sat, conversing together of past and present and 
 future ; 
 
 While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for 
 within her 
 
 Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of 
 the music 
 I025 Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepress- 
 ible sadness 
 
 Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth 
 into the garden. 
 
 Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall 
 of the forest, 
 
 Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
 On the river 
 
 Fell here and there through the branches a trem- 
 ulous gleam of the moonlight, 
 1030 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened 
 and devious spirit. 
 
 Nearer and round about her, the manifold flow- 
 ers of the garden 
 
 Poured out their souls in odors, that were their 
 prayers and confessions 
 
 Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent 
 Carthusian. 
 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
 shadows and night-dews, 
 1035 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and 
 the magical moonlight 
 
 1033. The Carthusians are a monastic order founded in the 
 twelfth century, perhaps the most severe in its rules of all 
 religious societies. Almost perpetual silence is one of the vows; 
 me monks can talk together but once a week; the labor re- 
 quired of them is unremitting and the discipline exceedingly 
 rigid. The first monastery was established at Chartreux near 
 Grenoble in France, and the Latinized form of the name has 
 Siven us the word Carthusian. 
 
80 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable 
 
 longings, 
 As, through the garden gate, and beneath the 
 
 shade of the oak-trees, 
 Passed she along the path to the edge of the 
 
 measureless prairie. 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and 
 
 fire-flies 
 1040 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and in- 
 finite numbers. 
 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in 
 
 the heavens, 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to 
 
 marvel and worship, 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls 
 
 of that temple, 
 As if a hand had appeared and written upon 
 
 them , ' ' Upharsin.' ' 
 1045 And the soul of the maiden, between the stars 
 
 and the fire-flies, 
 Wandered alone, and she cried, u O Gabriel! O 
 
 my beloved! 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot be- 
 hold thee? 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 
 
 does not reach me? 
 Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to 
 
 the prairie! 
 1050 Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the 
 
 woodlands around me! 
 Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from 
 
 labor, 
 Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me 
 
 in thy slumbers! 
 When shall these eyes behold, these arms be 
 
 folded about thee? " 
 
EVANGELINE. 81 
 
 Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip- 
 
 poorwill sounded 
 1055 Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the 
 
 neighboring thickets, 
 Farther and farther away it floated and dropped 
 
 into silence. 
 1 ' Patience ! ' ' whispered the oaks from oracular 
 
 caverns of darkness ; 
 And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 
 
 M To-morrow 1 9 * 
 
 Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flow- 
 ers of the garden 
 1060 Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and 
 anointed his tresses 
 
 With the delicious balm that they bore in their 
 vases of crystal. 
 
 " Farewell I " said the priest, as he stood at the 
 shadowy threshold ; 
 
 '* See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from 
 his fasting and famine, 
 
 And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the 
 bridegroom was coming." 
 1065 " Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, 
 with Basil descended 
 
 Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen al- 
 ready were waiting. 
 
 Thus beginning their journey with morning, and 
 sunshine, and gladness, 
 
 Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was 
 speeding before them, 
 
 Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf ovei 
 the desert. 
 1070 Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that 
 succeeded, . 
 6 
 
62 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest 
 
 or river, 
 Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but 
 
 vague and uncertain 
 Rumors alone were their guides through a wild 
 
 and desolate country ; 
 Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of 
 
 Adayes, 
 1075 Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from 
 
 the garrulous landlord, 
 That on the day before, with horses and guides 
 
 and companions, 
 Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the 
 
 prairies. 
 
 iv. 
 
 Far in the West there lies a desert land, where 
 the mountains 
 
 Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and lu- 
 minous summits. 
 1080 Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the 
 gorge, like a gateway, 
 
 Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emi- 
 grant's wagon, 
 
 Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway 
 and Owyhee. 
 
 Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind- 
 river Mountains, 
 
 Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate 
 leaps the Nebraska; 
 ro85 And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and 
 the Spanish sierras, 
 
 Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the 
 wind of the desert, 
 
 Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, de- 
 scend to the ocean, 
 
EVANGELINE. 83 
 
 Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and sol- 
 emn vibrations. 
 
 Spreading between these streams are the won- 
 drous, beautiful prairies, 
 I090 Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and 
 sunshine, 
 
 Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and pur- 
 ple amorphas. 
 
 Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the 
 elk and the roebuck; 
 
 Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of 
 riderless horses ; 
 
 Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are 
 weary with travel; 
 1095 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishma- 
 ePs children, 
 
 Staining the desert with blood; and above their 
 terrible war-trails 
 
 Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the 
 vulture, 
 
 Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaugh- 
 tered in battle, 
 
 By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the 
 heavens. 
 3IOO Here and there rise smokes from the camps of 
 these savage marauders ; 
 
 Here and there rise groves from the margins of 
 swift-running rivers; 
 
 And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk 
 of the desert, 
 
 Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots 
 by the brook-side, 
 
 And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline 
 heaven, 
 1105 Like the protecting hand of God inverted above 
 them. 
 
84 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Into this wonderful land, at the base of the 
 
 Ozark Mountains, 
 Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trap- 
 pers behind him. 
 Day after day, with their Indian guides, the 
 
 maiden and Basil 
 Followed his flying steps, and thought each day 
 
 to o'ertake him. 
 1 1 io Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the. 
 
 smoke of his camp-fire 
 Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; 
 
 but at nightfall, 
 When they had reached the place, they found 
 
 only embers and ashes. 
 And, though their hearts were sad at times and 
 
 their bodies were weary, 
 Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata 
 
 Morgana / 
 
 1 1 15 Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated 
 and vanished before them. 
 
 Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there 
 
 silently entered 
 Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose 
 
 features 
 Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as 
 
 great as her sorrow. 
 
 1114. The Italian name for a meteoric phenomenon nearly 
 allied to a mirage, witnessed in the Straits of Messina, and less 
 frequently elsewhere, and consisting in the appearance in the air 
 over the sea of the objects which are upon the neighboring 
 coasts. In the southwest of our own country, the mirage is 
 very common, of lakes which stretch before the tired traveller, 
 and the deception is so great that parties have sometimes 
 beckoned to other travellers, who seemed to be wading knee* 
 <Leep, to come over to them where dry land was. * 
 
EVANGELINE. 85 
 
 She was a Shawnee woman returning home to 
 
 her people, 
 1120 From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel 
 
 Camanches, 
 Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des- 
 
 Bois, had been murdered. 
 Touched were their hearts at her story, and 
 
 warmest and friendliest welcome 
 Gave they, with words of cheer, anrd she sat and 
 
 feasted among them 
 On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on 
 
 the embers. 
 1 125 But when their meal was done, and Basil and all 
 
 his companions, 
 Worn with the long day's march and the chase 
 
 of the deer and the bison, 
 Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept 
 
 where the quivering fire-light 
 Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms 
 
 wrapped up in their blankets, 
 Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat 
 
 and repeated 
 1130 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of 
 
 her Indian accent, 
 All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and 
 
 pains, and reverses. 
 Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know 
 
 that another 
 Hapless heart like her own had loved and had 
 
 been disappointed. 
 Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and 
 
 woman's compassion, 
 1135 Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suf- 
 fered was near her, 
 She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
 
86 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when 
 she had ended 
 
 Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious 
 horror 
 
 Passed through her brain, she spake, and re- 
 peated the tale of the Mo wis ; 
 1140 Mo wis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and 
 wedded a maiden, 
 
 But, when the morning came, arose and passed 
 from the wigwam, 
 
 Fading and melting away and dissolving into the 
 sunshine, 
 
 Till she beheld him no more, though she followed 
 far into the forest. 
 
 Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like 
 a weird incantation, 
 1 145 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was 
 wooed by a phantom, 
 
 That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, 
 in the hush of the twilight, 
 
 Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered 
 love to the maiden, 
 
 Till she followed his green and waving plume 
 through the forest, 
 
 And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by 
 her people. 
 1 150 Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evan- 
 geline listened 
 
 To the soft flow of her magical words, till the re- 
 gion around her 
 
 Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy 
 guest the enchantress. 
 
 Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the 
 moon rose, 
 
 1145. The story of Lilinau and other Indian legends will b« 
 Cound in H. R. Schoolcraft's Algic Researches. 
 
EVANGELINE. 87 
 
 Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious 
 
 splendor 
 1 155 Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and 
 
 filling the woodland. 
 With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and 
 
 the branches 
 Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible 
 
 whispers. 
 Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's 
 
 heart, but a secret, 
 Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite ter- 
 ror, 
 1 160 As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest 
 
 of the swallow. 
 It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region 
 
 of spirits 
 Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt 
 
 for a moment 
 That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing 
 
 a phantom. 
 With this thought she slept, and the fear and the 
 
 phantom had vanished. 
 
 1 165 Early upon the morrow the march was re- 
 sumed; and the Shawnee 
 
 Said, as they journeyed along, — M On the west- 
 ern slope of these mountains 
 
 Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief 
 of the Mission. 
 
 Much he teaches the people, and tells them of 
 Mary and Jesus; 
 
 Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with 
 pain, as they hear him. ,, 
 1170 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evange- 
 line answered, 
 
88 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings 
 
 await us!" 
 Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a 
 
 spur of the mountains, 
 Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur 
 
 of voices, 
 And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank 
 
 of a river, 
 1 1 75 Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the 
 
 Jesuit Mission. 
 Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of 
 
 the village, 
 Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A 
 
 crucifix fastened 
 High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed 
 
 by grapevines, 
 Looked with its agonized face on the multitude 
 
 kneeling beneath it. 
 1180 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the 
 
 intricate arches 
 Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their ves- 
 pers, 
 Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and 
 
 sighs of the branches. 
 Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, 
 
 nearer approaching, 
 Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the 
 
 evening devotions. 
 1 185 But when the service was done, and the benedic- 
 tion had fallen 
 Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed 
 
 from the hands of the sower, 
 Slowly the reverend man advanced to the 
 
 strangers, and bade them 
 Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled 
 with benignant expression, 
 
EVANGELINE. 89 
 
 Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother- 
 tongue in the forest, 
 1 190 And, with words of kindness, conducted them 
 into his wigwam. 
 
 There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on 
 cakes of the maize-ear 
 
 Feasted, and slaked thoir thirst from the water- 
 gourd of the teacher. 
 
 Soon was their story told; and the priest with 
 solemnity answered: — 
 
 4 ■ Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, 
 seated 
 1 195 On this mat by my side, where now the maiden 
 reposes, 
 
 Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and con- 
 tinued his journey! " 
 
 Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake 
 with an accent of kindness; 
 
 But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in 
 winter the snow-flakes 
 
 Fall into some lone nest from which the birds 
 have departed. 
 [200 " Far to the north he has gone," continued the 
 priest; " but in autumn, 
 
 When the chase is done, will return again to 
 the Mission." 
 
 Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek 
 and submissive, 
 
 " Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad 
 and afflicted." 
 
 So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes 
 on the morrow, 
 I2l5 Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian 
 guides and companions, 
 
 Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline 
 stayed at the Mission. 
 
90 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each 
 
 other, — 
 Days and weeks and months; and the fields of 
 
 maize that were springing 
 Green from the ground when a stranger she 
 
 came, now waving above her, 
 mo Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves inter- 
 lacing:, and forming 
 Cloisters for mendicant crow and granaries 
 
 pillaged by squirrels. 
 Then in the golden weather the maize was 
 
 husked, and the maidens 
 Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened 
 
 a lover, 
 But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief 
 
 in the corn-field. 
 1 21 5 Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought 
 
 not her lover. 
 " Patience! " the priest would say ; " have faith, 
 
 and thy prayer will be answered! 
 Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head 
 
 from the meadow, 
 See how its leaves are turned to the north, as 
 
 true as the magnet ; 
 It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God 
 
 has planted 
 1220 Here in the houseless wild, to direct the trav 
 
 eller's journey 
 Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of 
 
 the desert. 
 Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms 
 
 of passion, 
 
 1219. Silphium latiniatum or compass-plant is found on the 
 prairies of Michigan and Wisconsin and to the south and west, 
 and is said to present the edges of the lower leaves due north and 
 %outb 
 
EVANGELINE. 91 
 
 Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and 
 
 fuller of fragrance, 
 But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and 
 
 their odor is deadly. 
 T225 Only this humble plant can guide us here, and 
 
 hereafter 
 Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet 
 
 with the dews of nepenthe." 
 
 So came the autumn, and passed, and the 
 
 winter, — yet Gabriel came not; 
 Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of 
 
 the robin and bluebird 
 Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet 
 
 Gabriel came not. 
 1230 But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor 
 
 was wafted 
 Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of 
 
 blossom. 
 Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michi- 
 gan forests, 
 Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the 
 
 Saginaw River. 
 And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes 
 
 of St. Lawrence, 
 1235 Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the 
 
 Mission. 
 When over weary ways, by long and perilous 
 
 marches, 
 
 1226. In early Greek poetry the asphodel meadows were 
 haanted by the shades of heroes. See Homer's Odyssey, xxiv. 
 13, where Pope translates : — 
 
 " In ever flowering meads of asphodel." 
 
 The asphodel is of the lily family and is known also by the 
 qaine king's spear. 
 
&2 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 She had attained at length the depths of the 
 
 Michigan forests, 
 Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and 
 fallen to ruin! 
 
 Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in 
 
 seasons and places 
 [240 Divers and distant far was seen the wandering 
 
 maiden ; — 
 Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian 
 
 Missions, 
 Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of 
 
 the army, 
 Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous 
 
 cities. 
 Like a phantom she came, and passed away un- 
 
 remembered. 
 124$ Fair was she and young, when in hope began the 
 
 long journey ; 
 Faded was she and old, when in disappoint- 
 ment it ended. 
 Each succeeding year stole something away from 
 
 her beauty, 
 Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the 
 
 gloom and the shadow. 
 Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of 
 
 gray o'er her forehead, 
 1*50 Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly 
 
 horizon, 
 As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of 
 
 the morning. 
 
 In that delightful land which is washed by the 
 
 Delaware's waters, 
 1241. A rendering of the Moravian Gnadenhutten. 
 
EVANGELINE. 93 
 
 Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the 
 
 apostle, 
 Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the 
 
 city he founded. 
 1255 There all the air is balm, and the peach is the 
 
 emblem of beauty, 
 And the streets still reecho the names of the 
 
 trees of the forest, 
 As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose 
 
 haunts they molested. 
 There from the troubled sea had Evangeline 
 
 landed, an exile, 
 Finding among the children of Penn a home and 
 
 a country. 
 1260 There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he 
 
 departed, 
 Saw at his side only one of all his hundred de- 
 scendants. 
 Something at least there was in the friendly 
 
 streets of the city, 
 Something that spake to her heart, and made 
 
 her no longer a stranger ; 
 And her ear was pleased with the Thee and 
 
 Thou of the Quakers, 
 1 265 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
 Where all men were equal, and all were brothers 
 
 and sisters. 
 So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed 
 
 endeavor, 
 Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, un- 
 complaining, 
 Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her 
 
 thoughts and her footsteps. 
 
 1256. The streets of Philadelphia, as is well known, are 
 many of them, especially those running east and wes*, named 
 r or trees, as Chestnut, Walnut, Locust, Spruce, Pine, etc. 
 
94 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 1270 As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the 
 morning 
 
 Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape be- 
 low us, 
 
 Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and 
 hamlets, 
 
 So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 
 world far below her, 
 
 Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and 
 the pathway 
 1 275 Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and 
 fair in the distance. 
 
 Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart 
 was his image, 
 
 Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 
 she beheld him, 
 
 Only more beautiful made by his deathlike sil- 
 ence and absence. 
 
 Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for 
 it was not. 
 1 280 Over him years had no power; he was not changed, 
 but transfigured; 
 
 He had become to her heart as one who is dead, 
 and not absent; 
 
 Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to 
 others, 
 
 This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 
 taught her. 
 
 So was her love diffused, but, like to some odor- 
 ous spices, 
 VzS^ Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 
 with aroma. 
 
 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but 
 to follow 
 
 Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of 
 her Saviour. 
 
EVANGELINE. 95 
 
 Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; 
 
 frequenting 
 Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes 
 
 of the city, 
 1290 Where distress and want concealed themselves 
 
 from the sunlight, 
 Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished 
 
 neglected. 
 Night after night, when the world was asleep, as 
 
 the watchman repeated 
 Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well 
 
 in the city, 
 High at some lonely window he saw the light of 
 
 her taper. 
 1295 Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow 
 through the suburbs 
 Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and 
 
 fruits for the market, 
 Met he that meek, pale face, returning home 
 
 from its watchings. 
 
 Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on 
 
 the city, 
 Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks 
 
 of wild pigeons, 
 1300 Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in 
 
 their craws but an acorn. 
 And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of 
 
 September, 
 Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to ;i 
 
 lake in the meadow, 
 
 1 298. The year 1793 was long remembered as the year when 
 yellow fever was a terrible pestilence in Philadelphia. Charles 
 Srockden Brown made his novel of Arthur Mervyn turn largely 
 npon tne incidents of the plague, which drove Brown away 
 from home for a time. 
 
96 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural 
 
 margin, 
 Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 
 
 existence. 
 1305 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to 
 
 charm, the oppressor; 
 But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his 
 
 anger ; — 
 Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor 
 
 attendants, 
 Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the 
 
 homeless. 
 Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of 
 
 meadows and woodlands ; — 
 1310 Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gate- 
 way and wicket 
 Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls 
 
 seem to echo 
 Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye 
 
 always have with you." 
 Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of 
 
 Mercy. The dying 
 Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to 
 
 behold there 
 1315 Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead 
 
 with splendor, 
 Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints 
 
 and apostles, 
 Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a 
 
 distance. 
 
 1308. Philadelplrians have identified the old Friends' alms- 
 house on Walnut Street, now no longer standing, as that in which 
 Evangeline ministered to Gahriel, and so real was the story, 
 mat some even ventured to point out the graves of the two 
 lovers. See Westcott's The Historic Mansions of Philadelphia 
 .,p. 101, 102. 
 
EVANGELINE. 97 
 
 Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city 
 
 celestial, 
 Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits 
 
 would enter. 
 
 1320 Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, 
 
 deserted and silent, 
 Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of 
 
 the almshouse. . 
 Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flower9 
 
 in the garden, 
 And she paused on her way to gather the fairest 
 
 among them, 
 That the dying once more might rejoice in their 
 
 fragrance and beauty. 
 1325 Then_, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, 
 
 cooled by the east- wind, 
 Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from 
 
 the belfry of Christ Church, 
 While, intermingled with these, across the mead- 
 ows were wafted 
 Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes 
 
 in their church at Wicaco. 
 Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the 
 
 hour on her spirit; 
 1330 Something within her said, " At length thy trials 
 
 are ended; " 
 
 1328. The Swedes' church at Wicaco is still standing, the 
 oldest in the city of Philadelphia, having been begun in 1698. 
 Wicaco is* within the city on the banks of the Delaware River. 
 An interesting account of the old church and its historic asso- 
 ciations will be found in Westcott's book just mentioned, pp. 
 56-67. Wilson the ornitholog : st lies buried in the churchyard 
 adjoining the church. 
 7 
 
98 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And, with light in her looks, she entered the 
 chambers of sickness. 
 
 Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful at- 
 tendants, 
 
 Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, 
 and in silence 
 
 Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and con- 
 cealing their faces, 
 1335 Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of 
 snow by the roadside. 
 
 Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 
 entered, 
 
 Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 
 passed, for her presence 
 
 Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the 
 walls of a prison. 
 
 And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, 
 the consoler, 
 1340 Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed 
 it forever. 
 
 Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 
 night time ; 
 
 Vacant their places were, or filled already by 
 strangers. 
 
 Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of 
 wonder, 
 
 Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 
 while a shudder 
 '345 R an through her frame, and, forgotten, the flow- 
 erets dropped from her fingers, 
 
 And from her eyes and cheeks the light and 
 bloom of the morning. 
 
 Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such 
 terrible anguish, 
 
EVANGELINE. 99 
 
 That the dying heard it, and started up from 
 
 their pillows. 
 On the pallet before her was stretched the form 
 
 of an old man. 
 T350 Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that 
 
 shaded his temples ; 
 But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for 
 
 a moment 
 Seemed to assume once more the forms of its 
 
 earlier manhood; 
 So are wont to be changed the faces of those who 
 
 are dying. 
 Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of 
 
 the fever, 
 1355 As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be- 
 sprinkled its portals, 
 That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and 
 
 pass over. 
 Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his 
 
 spirit exhausted 
 Seemed to be sinking down through infinite 
 
 depths in the darkness, 
 Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking 
 
 and sinking. 
 360 Then through those realms of shade, in multi- 
 plied reverberations, 
 Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush 
 
 that succeeded 
 Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and 
 
 saint-like, 
 " Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into 
 
 silence. 
 Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the 
 
 home of his childhood : 
 
100 LONGFELLOW, 
 
 1365 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 
 among them, 
 
 Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, 
 walking under their shadow, 
 
 As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in 
 his vision. 
 
 Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted 
 his eyelids, 
 
 Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt 
 by his bedside. 
 1370 Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the ac- 
 cents unuttered 
 
 Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what 
 his tongue would have spoken. 
 
 Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneel- 
 ing beside him, 
 
 Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 
 bosom. 
 
 Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly 
 sank into darkness, 
 1375 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind 
 at a casement. 
 
 All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and 
 
 the sorrow, 
 All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied 
 
 longing, 
 All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of 
 
 patience! 
 And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head 
 
 to her bosom, 
 1380 Meekly she bowed her own, and murmuredj 
 
 "Father, I thank thee! " 
 
EVANGELINE. 101 
 
 Still stands the forest primeval; but far away 
 from its shadow, 
 
 Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers 
 are sleeping. 
 
 Under the humble walls of the little Catholic 
 churchyard, 
 
 In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and 
 unnoticed. 
 1385 Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing be- 
 side them, 
 
 Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are 
 at rest and forever, 
 
 Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no 
 longer are busy, 
 
 Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have 
 ceased from their labors, 
 
 Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have com- 
 pleted their journey ! 
 
 1390 Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the 
 
 shade of its branches 
 Dwells another race, with other customs and lan- 
 guage. 
 Only along the shore of the mournful and misty 
 
 Atlantic 
 Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers 
 
 from exile 
 Wandered back to their native land to die in its 
 
 bosom. 
 i 395 In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are 
 
 still busy ; 
 Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their 
 
 kirtles of homespun, 
 And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's 
 
 story, 
 
102 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, 
 
 neighboring ocean 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
 
 wail of the forest. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 [This poem, also written in hexameters, has yet 
 a lighter, quicker movement, due to the more play- 
 ful character of the narrative. A slight change of 
 accent in the first line prepares one for this livelier 
 pace, and the reader will find that the lights and 
 shades of the story use whatever elasticity there is 
 in the hexameter, crisp, varying lines alternating 
 with the steady pulse of the dactyl. The poet 
 has built upon a slight tradition which has come 
 down to us from the days of the Plymouth settle- 
 ment, a story which depicts in a succession of 
 scenes the life of the Old Colony. In doing this 
 he has not cared to follow explicitly the succes- 
 sion of events, but has been true to the general 
 history of the time and has in each picture copied 
 faithfully the essential characteristics of the origi- 
 nal. He has taken the somewhat dry and unimag- 
 inative chronicles of the time and touched* them 
 
 1399. Observe the recurrence of the phrases with which the 
 poem began. The effect is to impress upon the mind the minor 
 l one of the story, leaving last upon the ear the key-note first 
 ►truck. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 103 
 
 with a poetic light and warmth, and the reader 
 of this poem who resumes such a book as Dr. 
 Young's "Chronicles of the Pilgrims/' will find 
 the simple story of the early settlers to have 
 gained in beauty. The poem was published in 
 1858.] 
 
 I. 
 
 MILES STANDISH. 
 
 In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land 
 
 of the Pilgrims, 
 ,To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive 
 
 dwelling, 
 Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan 
 
 leather, 
 Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the 
 
 Puritan Captain. 
 5 Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands be- 
 hind him, and pausing 
 Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of 
 
 warfare, 
 Hanging in shining array along the walls of the 
 
 chamber, — 
 
 1. The Old Colony is the name which has long been applied 
 to that part of Massachusetts which was occupied by the Plym- 
 outh colonists whose first settlement was in 1620. Massachu- ■ 
 setts Bay was the name by which was known the later collection 
 of settlements made about Boston and Salem. 
 
 2. The first houses of the Pilgrims were of logs filled in wiUi 
 mortar and covered with thatch . 
 
 3. Cordova in Spain was celebrated for a preparation of goat- 
 skin which took the name of Cordovan. Hence came cord wain, 
 or Spanish tanned goat-skin, and in England shoemakers are 
 Mill often called cordwainers. In France, too, the same word 
 save cordonnitr. 
 
104 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword 
 
 of Damascus, 
 Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical 
 
 Arabic sentence, 
 10 While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, 
 
 musket, and matchlock. 
 Short of stature he was, but strongly built and 
 
 athletic, 
 Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles 
 
 and sinews of iron; 
 Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard 
 
 was already 
 Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes 
 
 in November. 
 
 8. The corselet was a light breast-plate of armor. One of 
 Standish's grandsons is said to have been in possession of his coat- 
 of-mail. His sword is in the cabinet of the Massachusetts Histori- 
 cal Society. As "the identical sword-blade used by Miles 
 Standish " is also in possession of the Pilgrim Society of Plym- 
 outh, the antiquary may take his choice between them, or cred- 
 it Standish with a change of weapons. Damascus blades are 
 swords or cimeters presenting upon their surface a variegated 
 appearance of watering, as white, silvery, or black veins in fine 
 lines and fillets. Such engraved blades were common in the 
 East, and the most famous came from Damascus; the exact 
 secret of the workmanship has never been fully discovered in 
 the West. 
 
 10. A. fowling-piece is a light gun for shooting birds; a match- 
 lock was a musket, the lock of which held a match or piece of 
 twisted rope prepared to retain fire. As late as 1687 match- 
 locks were used instead of flint-locks, which had then come into 
 general use. In Bradford and Winslow's Journal (Young's 
 Chronicles of the Pilgrims, p. 125), we are told of a partv setting 
 out u with every man his musket, sword, and corseiet, under 
 the conduct of Captain Miles Standish-" That these muskets 
 were matchlocks, appears from another passage ;n the sarm- 
 journal (p. 142): -'Then we lighted all our matches and pre 
 pared ourselves, concluding that we were near their dwell- 
 in^s." 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 105 
 
 r5 Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and 
 household companion, 
 Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by 
 
 the window; 
 Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon com- 
 plexion, 
 Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty 
 
 thereof, as the captives 
 Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, " Not 
 . Angles but Angels." 
 20 Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the 
 Mayflower. 
 
 Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe 
 interrupting, 
 
 15. Bradford, the historian of the Plymouth Plantation, says 
 that John Alden, who was one of the Mayflower company, 
 "was hired for a cooper, at Southampton, where the ship 
 victualled; and being a hopeful young man, was much de- 
 sired, but left to his own liking to go or stay when he came 
 here [to Plymouth, that is] ; but he stayed and married here." 
 In this picture of Miles Standish and John Alden, some have 
 professed to see a miniature likeness to Oliver Cromwell and 
 John Milton. 
 
 * 18. The story of the first mission to heathen England is :e- 
 ferred to here. A monk named Gregory, in the sixth century, 
 passed through the slave-market at Rome, and there amongst 
 other captives he saw three fair-complexioned and fair-haired 
 boys, in striking contrast to the dusky captives about them 
 He asked whence they came, and was answered, "From Brit- 
 ain," and that they were called Angli, which was the Latin 
 form of the name by which they called themselves, and from 
 which Anglo, England- and English are derived- il Non Angli 
 ted A ngeli^ replied Gregory; *' they have the face of angels, 
 not of Angles, and they ought to be fellow heirs of heaven." 
 Years afterward, the story runs when Gregory was pope, he 
 remembered the fair captives, and sent St. Augustine to carry 
 Christianity to them. The story will be found at length in E. 
 A. Freeman's Old English History for Children, d. 44. 
 
106 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish 
 
 the Captain of Plymouth. 
 ' 'Look at these arms," he said, " the warlike 
 
 weapons that hang here 
 Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade 
 
 or inspection! 
 25 This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in 
 
 Flanders ; this breastplate, 
 Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a 
 
 skirmish ; 
 Here in front you can see the very dint of the 
 
 bullet 
 Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arca- 
 
 bucero. 
 Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones 
 
 of Miles Standish 
 30 Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in 
 
 the Flemish morasses." 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not 
 
 up from his writing: 
 1 ' Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the 
 
 speed of the bullet ; 
 He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield 
 
 and our weapon! " 
 Still the Captain continued, unheeding f he words 
 
 of the stripling : 
 35 " See, how bright they are burnished, af if in an 
 
 arsenal hanging ; 
 
 25. The history of Miles Standish is not clearly known, but 
 be was a soldier in the Low Countries during the defence of the 
 Netherlands against the Spanish power, and the poet has made 
 Qiuch of this little knowledge that we have. 
 
 28. Avcabucero is Spanish for archer, and the same term 
 passed over, as weapons changed, into a musketeer and gun« 
 smith. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 107 
 
 That is because I have done it myself, and not 
 
 left it to others. 
 Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an 
 
 excellent adage; 
 So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens 
 
 and your inkhorn. 
 Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invin- 
 cible army, 
 j.o Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest 
 
 and his matchlock, 
 Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and 
 
 pillage, 
 And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my 
 
 soldiers! " 
 This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, 
 
 as the sunbeams 
 Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again 
 
 in a moment. 
 45 Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain 
 
 continued : 
 " Look! you can see from this window my brazen 
 
 howitzer planted 
 High on the roof of the church, a preacher who 
 
 speaks to the purpose, 
 
 38. There is some uncertainty about the derivation of the 
 word inkhorn. The usual interpretation refers to the custom of 
 scribes carrying ink in a horn attached to their dress, but 
 some etymologists make it a corruption from inJcern, the 
 terminations erne and eron coming from the Saxon em, earn, a 
 secret place to put anything in, inkern being thus a little vessel 
 into which we put ink. % 
 
 39. The formation of the military company was due chiefly 
 to the serious losses that befel the Pilgrims during the first 
 winter, leading them to make careful provision against sur- 
 prises and attacks from the Indians. 
 
 47. One of the earliest structures raised by the Pilgrims was 
 
108 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresisti- 
 ble logic, 
 
 Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts 
 of the heathen. 
 50 Now we are ready, I think, for ,any assault of the 
 Indians ; 
 
 Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they 
 try it the better, — 
 
 Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, 
 or pow-wow, 
 
 Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Toka- 
 mahamon! " 
 
 Long at the window he stood, and wistfully 
 gazed on the landscape, 
 55 Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath 
 of the east-wind, 
 Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue 
 
 rim of the ocean, 
 Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows 
 
 and sunshine. 
 Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those 
 
 on the landscape, 
 Gloom intermingled with light ; and his voice was 
 subdued with emotion, 
 60 Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he .pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
 a platform upon the hill overlooking the settlement, where 
 they mounted five guns. They had also a common house for 
 rendezvous, nineteen feet square, but the planting of guns upon 
 the log-built meeting-house belongs to a later date. 
 
 52. The sagamore was an Indian chief of the subordinate 
 class; the sachem a principal chief; the pow-wow a medicine 
 man or conjuvor. 
 
 53. Names of Indians who are mentioned in the early chron 
 icies. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 109 
 
 " Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried 
 
 Rose Standish ; 
 Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the 
 
 wayside ! 
 She was the first to die of all who came in the 
 
 Mayflower ! 
 Green above her is growing the field of wheat we 
 
 have sown there, 
 5$ Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves 
 
 of our people, 
 Lest they should" count them and see how many 
 
 already have perished ! " 
 Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, 
 
 and was thoughtful. 
 
 Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, 
 and among them 
 Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and 
 for binding ; 
 70 Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries 
 of Caesar 
 
 64. The dead were buried on a bluff by the water-side during 
 that first terrible winter, and the marks of burial were care- 
 fully effaced, lest the Indians should discover how the colony 
 had been weakened. The tradition is preserved in Holmes's 
 Annals. 
 
 70. The elaborate title of Standish's military book was: 
 ( 'Militarie Discipline: or the Young Artillery Man, Wherein is 
 Discoursed and Shown the Postures both of Musket and Pike, 
 the Exactest way, &c, Together with the Exercise of the Foot 
 in their Motions, with much variety: As also, diverse and sev- 
 iral Forms for the Imbatteling small or great Bodies demon- 
 strated by the number of a single Company with their Induce- 
 ments. Very necessary for all such as are Studious in the Art 
 Military. Whereunto is also added the Postures and Bene- 
 Gciall Use of the Halfe-Pike joyned with the Musket. With 
 
110 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of 
 London, 
 
 And, as if guarded by these, between them was 
 standing the Bible. 
 
 Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish 
 paused, as if doubtful 
 
 Which of the three he should choose for his con- 
 solation and comfort, 
 75 Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous 
 campaigns of the Romans, 
 
 Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent 
 Christians. 
 
 Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponder- 
 ous Roman, 
 
 Seated himself at the window, and opened the 
 book, and in silence 
 
 Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb- 
 marks thick on the margin, 
 80 Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle 
 was hottest, 
 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 
 pen of the stripling, 
 
 Busily writing epistles important, to go by the 
 Mayflower, 
 
 Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, 
 God willing! 
 
 the way to draw up the Swedish Brigade. By Colonel William 
 Barriffe." Barrrffe was a Puritan, and added to his title-page : 
 ' Psalmes 144 : 1. Blessed be the Lord my Strength which 
 teaeheth my hands to warre and my fingers to fight." 
 
 71. Golding was a voluminous translator, and his translation 
 )f Ovid's Metamorphoses was highly regarded. He was pat- 
 ronized by Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 82. The Mayflower began her return voyage April 5, 1621. 
 Not a single one of the emigrants returned in her, in spite of thi 
 "terrible winter." 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. Ill 
 
 Homeward bound with the tidings of all that ter- 
 rible winter, 
 85 Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of 
 Priscilla, 
 
 Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan 
 maiden Priscilla! 
 
 II. 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 
 
 pen of the stripling, 
 Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of 
 
 the Captain, 
 Reading the marvellous words and achievements 
 
 of Julius Caesar. 
 90 After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his 
 
 hand, palm downwards, 
 Heavily on the page : u A wonderful man was this 
 
 Caesar! 
 You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is 
 
 a fellow 
 Who could both write and fight, and in both was 
 
 equally skilful ! ' ' 
 Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the 
 
 comely, the youthful: 
 95 u Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with 
 
 his pen and his weapons. 
 Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he 
 
 could dictate 
 Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his 
 
 memoirs. " 
 
 85. Among the names of the Mayflower company are those 
 of "Mr. William Midlines and his wife, and 2 children, Joseph 
 ind Priscila; and a servant, Robart Carter." 
 
112 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or 
 hearing the other, 
 
 " Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cae- 
 sar ! 
 loo Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian vil- 
 lage, 
 
 Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right 
 when he said.it. 
 
 Twice was he married before he was twenty, and 
 many times after; 
 
 Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand 
 cities he conquered; 
 
 He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himsejf has re- 
 corded ; 
 105 Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator 
 Brutus ! 
 
 Now, do you know what he did on a certain oc- 
 casion in Flanders, 
 
 When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the 
 front giving way too, 
 
 And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so 
 closely together 
 
 There was no room for their swords? Why, he 
 seized a shield from a soldier, 
 no Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and 
 commanded the captains, 
 
 100. " In his journey, as he was crossing the Alps and pass- 
 ing by a small village, of the barbarians with cut few inhab- 
 itants, and those wretchedly poor, his companions asked the 
 question among themselves by way of mockery if there were 
 any canvassing for offices there; any contention, which should 
 be uppermost, or feuds of great men one against another. 
 To which Caesar made answer seriously, "For my part I had 
 rather be the first man among these fellows, than the second 
 man in Rome." Plutarch's Life of CcBsar, A. H. Clough's 
 ■yanslation. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 113 
 
 Calling on each by his name, to order forward 
 
 the ensigns ; 
 Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for 
 
 their weapons ; 
 So he won the day, the battle of something-or- 
 
 other. 
 That 's what I always say; if you wish a thing to 
 
 be well done, 
 1 1 5 You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to 
 
 others ! ' ' 
 
 All was silent again; the Captain continued his 
 reading. 
 
 Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 
 pen of the stripling 
 
 Writing epistles important to go next day by the 
 Mayflower, 
 
 Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan 
 maiden Priscilla; 
 1 20 Every sentence began or closed with the name of 
 Priscilla, 
 
 Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the 
 secret, 
 
 Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the 
 name of Priscilla! 
 
 Finally closing his book, with a bang of the pon- 
 derous cover, 
 
 Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier ground- 
 ing his musket, 
 125 Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the 
 Captain of Plymouth : 
 
 " When you have finished your work, I have 
 something important to tell you. 
 
 113. The account of this battle will be found in Caesar's Com- 
 mentaries, book II. ch. 10. 
 8 
 
114 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; I shall not 
 
 be impatient! " 
 Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last 
 
 of his letters, 
 Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful 
 
 attention: 
 130 u Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always 
 
 ready to listen, 
 Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles 
 
 Standish." 
 Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, 
 
 and culling his phrases : 
 M 'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the 
 
 Scriptures. 
 This I have said before, and again and again I re- 
 peat it ; 
 135 Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and 
 
 say it. 
 Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary 
 
 and dreary; 
 Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of 
 
 friendship. 
 Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the 
 
 maiden Priscilla. 
 She is alone in the world ; her father and mother 
 
 and brother 
 140 Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and 
 
 coming, 
 Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed 
 
 of the dying, 
 
 139. "Mr. Molines, and his wife, his sone and his servant, 
 dyed the first winter. Only his daughter Priscila survived 
 and married with John Alden, who are both living and have 
 11 children." Bradford's History of Plymouth Plantation, p 
 152. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 115 
 
 Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to my- 
 self, that if ever 
 There were angels on earth, as there are angels in 
 
 heaven, 
 Two have I seen and known ; and the angel whoso 
 
 name is Priscilla 
 145 Holds in my desolate life the place which the 
 
 other abandoned. 
 Long have I cherished the thought, but never have 
 
 dared to reveal it, 
 Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for 
 
 the most part. 
 Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of 
 
 "Plymouth, 
 Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words 
 
 but of actions, 
 F5d Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart 
 
 of a soldier. 
 Not in these words, you know, but this in short is 
 
 my meaning ; 
 I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 
 You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in ele- 
 gant language, 
 Such as you read in your books of the pleadings 
 
 and wooings of lovers, 
 155 Such as you think best adapted to win the heart 
 
 of a maiden." 
 
 When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair- 
 haired, taciturn stripling, 
 
 All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, 
 bewildered, 
 
 Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject 
 with lightness, 
 
 Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand 
 still in his bosom, 
 
116 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 1 60 Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken 
 by lightning, 
 
 Thus made answer and spake, or rather stam- 
 mered than answered: 
 
 " Such a message as that, I am sure I should man- 
 gle and mar it; 
 
 If you would have it well done, — I am only re- 
 peating your maxim, — 
 
 You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to 
 others! " 
 165 But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn 
 from his purpose, 
 
 Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Cap- 
 tain of Plymouth: 
 
 " Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to 
 gainsay it; 
 
 But we must use it discreetly, and not waste 
 powder for nothing. 
 
 Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of 
 phrases. 
 170 I can march up to a fortress and summon the place 
 to surrender, 
 
 But march up to a woman with such a proposal, 
 •I dare not. 
 
 I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the 
 mouth of a cannon, 
 
 But of a thundering ■ No ! ' point-blank from the 
 mouth of a woman, 
 
 That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamea 
 to confess it! 
 175 So you must grant my request, for you are an 
 elegant scholar, 
 
 Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turn- 
 ing of phrases." 
 
 Taking the Land of his friend, who still was reluc- 
 tant and doubtful. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 117 
 
 Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, 
 
 he added : 
 " Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is 
 
 the feeling that prompts me ; 
 1 80 Surely you cannot refuse .what I ask in the name 
 
 of our friendship! " 
 Then made answer John Alden : " The name of 
 
 friendship is sacred ; 
 What you demand in that name, I have not the 
 
 power to deny you! " 
 So the strong will prevailed, subduing and mould- 
 ing the gentler, 
 Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went 
 
 on his errand. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 
 
 [85 So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on 
 his errand, 
 
 Out of the street of the village, and into the paths 
 of the forest, 
 
 Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and rob- 
 ins were building 
 
 Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gar- 
 dens of verdure, 
 
 Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and 
 freedom. 
 190 All around him was calm, but within him commo- 
 tion and conflict, 
 
 Love contending with friendship, and self with 
 each generous impulse. 
 
 188. Compare the populous nests in Evangeline, 1. 136. in 
 the hanging gardens of verdure there is reference to the famous 
 hanging gardens of Babylon. 
 
118 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heav- 
 ing and dashing, 
 
 As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the ves- 
 sel, 
 
 Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the 
 ocean ! 
 195 " Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild 
 lamentation, — 
 
 " Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the 
 illusion ? 
 
 Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and wor- 
 shipped -in silence? 
 
 Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and 
 the shadow 
 
 Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New 
 England ? 
 200 Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths 
 of corruption 
 
 Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of 
 passion; 
 
 Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions 
 of Satan. 
 
 All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly 1 
 
 This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in 
 anger, 
 205 For I have followed too much the heart's desires 
 and devices, 
 
 Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols 
 of Baal. 
 
 This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift 
 retribution." 
 
 206. Astaroth, in the Old Testament Scripture, is the fornj 
 used for the principal female divinity, as Baal of the principal 
 male divimty of the Phoenicians. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 119 
 
 So through the Plymouth woods John Alden 
 went on his errand; 
 
 Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled 
 over pebble and shallow, 
 210 Gathering still, as he went, the Mayflowers bloom- 
 ing around him, 
 
 Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and won- 
 derful sweetness, 
 
 Children lost in the woods, and covered with 
 leaves in their slumber. 
 
 " Puritan flowers," he said, " and the type of Pu- 
 ritan maidens, 
 
 Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of 
 Priscilla ! 
 215 So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May- 
 flower of Plymouth, 
 
 Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift 
 will I take them ; 
 
 Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and 
 wither and perish, 
 
 Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the 
 giver. ' ' 
 
 So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went 
 on his errand; 
 22 Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the 
 ocean, 
 
 Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless 
 breath of the east- wind; 
 
 210. The Mayflower is the well-known Epigma repens, some- 
 tunes also called the Trailing Arbutus. The name Mayflower 
 was familiar in England, as the application of it to the historic 
 ship shows, but it was applied by the English, and is still, to 
 the hawthorn. Its use here in connection with Epigma repent 
 da.es from a very early day, some claiming that the first Pil- 
 grims so used it, in affectionate memory of the vessel and its 
 English flower associations. 
 
120 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a 
 meadow; 
 
 Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical 
 voice of Priscilla 
 
 Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puri- 
 tan anthem, 
 225 Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the 
 Psalmist, 
 
 Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and com- 
 forting many. 
 
 Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form 
 of the maiden 
 
 Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like 
 a snow-drift 
 
 Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the 
 ravenous spindle, 
 230 While with her foot on the treadle she guided the 
 wheel in its motion. 
 
 Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm- 
 book of Ainsworth, 
 
 Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music 
 together, 
 
 224. The words in the version which Priscilla used sound 
 somewhat rude to modern ears, but the music is substantially 
 what we know as Old Hundred. The poet tells us (1. 231) that 
 it was Ainsworth's translation which she used. Ainsworth be- 
 came a Brownist in 1590, suffered persecution, and found refuge 
 in Holland, where he published learned commentaries and 
 translations. His version of Psalm c. is as follows : — 
 
 1. Bow to Jehovah all the earth. 
 
 2. Serve ye Jehovah with gladness ; before him come with singing' 
 
 mirth. 
 8. Know that Jehovah he God is. It 's he that made us and not we ; 
 
 his flock and sheep of his feeding. 
 i. Qh, with confession enter ye his gates, his courtyard with praising 
 
 Confess to him, bless ye his name. 
 ft. Because Jehovah he good is ; his mercy ever is the same, and hia 
 
 faith unto all ages. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 121 
 
 Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall 
 
 of a churchyard, 
 Darkened and overhung by the running vine of 
 
 the verses. 
 235 Such was the book from whose pages she sang the 
 
 old Puritan anthem, 
 She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, 
 Making the humble house and the modest apparel 
 
 of home- spun 
 Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the 
 
 wealth of her being! 
 Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and 
 
 cold and relentless, 
 240 Thoughts of what might have been, and the 
 
 weight and woe of his errand ; 
 All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes 
 
 that had vanished, 
 All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless 
 
 mansion, 
 Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful 
 
 faces. 
 Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he 
 
 said it, 
 245 * ' Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough 
 
 look backwards; 
 Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers 
 
 of life to its fountains, 
 Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead ani 
 
 the hearths of the living, 
 It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endur- 
 
 eth forever 1 ' ' 
 
 So he entered the house; and the hum of the 
 wheel and the singing 
 250 Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his 
 step on the threshold, 
 
122 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in 
 signal of welcome, 
 
 Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard your 
 step in the passage; 
 
 For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing 
 and spinning." 
 
 Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought 
 of him had been mingled 
 255 Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the 
 heart of the maiden, 
 
 Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flow- 
 ers for an answer, 
 
 Finding no words for his thought. He remem- 
 bered that day in the winter, 
 
 After the first great snow, when he broke a path 
 from the village, 
 
 Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that 
 encimibered the doorway, 
 260 Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered 
 the house, and Priscilla 
 
 Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat 
 by the fireside, 
 
 Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of 
 her in the snow-storm. 
 
 Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had 
 he spoken; 
 
 Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had 
 vanished! 
 265 So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flow- 
 ers for an answer. 
 
 Then they sat down and talked of the birds and 
 the beautiful Spring-time; 
 Talked of their friends at home, and the May- 
 flower that sailed on the morrow. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 123 
 
 u I have been thinking all day," said gently the 
 
 Puritan maiden, 
 " Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the 
 
 hedge- rows of England, — 
 270 They are in blossom now, and the country is all 
 
 like a garden ; 
 Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the 
 
 lark and the linnet, 
 Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of 
 
 neighbors 
 Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip to- 
 gether, 
 And, at the end of the street, the village church, 
 
 with the ivy 
 275 Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves 
 
 in the churchyard. 
 Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me 
 
 my religion ; 
 Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in 
 
 Old England. 
 You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I 
 
 almost 
 Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely 
 
 and wretched." 
 
 280 Thereupon answered the youth: " Indeed I do 
 
 not condemn you; 
 Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this 
 
 terrible winter. 
 Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger 
 
 to lean on ; 
 So I have come to you now, with an offer and 
 
 proffer of marriage 
 Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the 
 
 Captain of Plymouth! " 
 
124 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 285 Thus lie delivered his message, the dexterous 
 writer of letters, — 
 
 Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beau- 
 tiful phrases, 
 
 But came straight to the point, and blurted it out 
 like a school-boy; 
 
 Even the Captain himself could hardly have said 
 it more bluntly. 
 
 Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the 
 Puritan maiden 
 290 Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with 
 wonder, 
 
 Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her 
 and rendered her speechless; 
 
 Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the 
 ominous silence: 
 
 " If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager 
 to wed me, 
 
 Why does he not come himself, and take the 
 trouble to woo me? 
 295 If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not 
 worth the winning! " 
 
 Then John Alden began explaining and smooth- 
 ing the matter, 
 
 Making it worse as he went, by saying the Cap- 
 tain was busy, — 
 
 Had no time for such things ; — such things ! the 
 words grating harshly 
 
 Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash 
 she made answer: 
 50c " Has he no time for such things, as you call it, be- 
 fore he is married, 
 
 Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after 
 the wedding ? 
 
 That is the way with you men ; you don't under- 
 stand us, you cannot. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 125 
 
 When you have made up your minds, after think- 
 ing of this one and that one, 
 
 Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with 
 another, 
 305 Then you make known your desire, with abrupt 
 and sudden avowal, 
 
 And are offended and hurt, and indignant per- 
 haps, that a woman 
 
 Does not respond at once to a love that she never 
 suspected, 
 
 Does not attain at a bound the height to which 
 you have been climbing. 
 
 This is not right nor just; for surely a woman's 
 affection 
 310 Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only 
 the asking. 
 
 When one is truly in love, one not only says it, 
 but shows it. 
 
 Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed 
 that he loved me, 
 
 Even this Captain of yours — who knows ? — at 
 last might have won me, 
 
 Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can 
 happen." 
 
 315 Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words 
 of Priscilla, 
 
 Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuad- 
 ing, expanding ; 
 
 Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all hi« 
 battles in Flanders, 
 
 How with the people of God he had chosen to 
 suffer affliction, 
 
 How, in return for his zeal, they had made him 
 Captain of Plymouth ; 
 
126 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 320 He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree 
 
 plainly 
 Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in 
 
 Lancashire, England, 
 Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of 
 
 Thurston de Standish ; 
 Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely 
 
 defrauded, 
 Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest 
 
 a cock argent 
 325 Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the 
 
 blazon. 
 He was a man of honor, of noble and generous 
 
 nature; 
 Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew 
 
 how during the winter 
 He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle 
 
 as woman's ; 
 
 321. M There are at this time in England two ancient fami- 
 lies of the name, one of Standish Hall, and the other of Dux- 
 bury Park, both in Lancashire, who trace their descent from a 
 common ancestor, Ralph de Standish, living in 1221. There 
 seems always to have been a military spirit in the family. 
 Froissart, relating in his Chronicles the memorable meeting be- 
 tween Richard II. and Wat Tyler, says that after the rebel was 
 struck from his horse by William Walworth, 'then a squyer of 
 ihe kynges alyted, called John Standysshe, and he drewe out 
 his sworde, and put into Wat Tyler's belye, and so he d} T ed.' 
 For this act Standish was knighted. In 1415 another Sir John 
 Standish fought at the battle of Agincourt. From his giving 
 the name of Duxbury to the town where he settled, near Plym- 
 outh, and calling his eldest son Alexander <a common name in 
 the Standish family), I have no doubt that Miles was a scion 
 e rom this ancient and warlike stock." Young's Chronicles oj 
 She Pilgrims, foot-note, p. 125. 
 
 325. Terms of heraldry. Argent is silver and gules red. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISII. 127 
 
 Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, 
 
 and headstrong, 
 330 Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and 
 
 placable always, 
 Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was 
 
 little of stature ; 
 For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, 
 
 courageous; 
 Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in 
 
 England, 
 Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of 
 
 Miles Standish! 
 
 335 But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and 
 eloquent language, 
 
 Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of 
 his rival, 
 
 Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over- 
 running with laughter, 
 
 Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you 
 speak for yourself, John? M 
 
 IV. 
 
 JOHN ALDEN. 
 
 Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and be- 
 wildered, 
 340 Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by 
 the sea-side; 
 
 Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head 
 to the east- wind, 
 
 Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever 
 within him. 
 
 Slowly, as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical 
 splendors, 
 
128 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the 
 Apostle, 
 345 So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and 
 sapphire, 
 
 Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets up- 
 lifted 
 
 Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who 
 measured the city. 
 
 " Welcome, O wind of the East! " he exclaimed 
 
 in his wild exultation, 
 11 Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves 
 
 of the misty Atlantic! 
 350 Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless 
 
 meadows of sea-grass, 
 Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and 
 
 gardens of ocean! 
 Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, 
 
 and wrap me 
 Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever 
 
 within me ! " 
 
 Like an awakened conscience, the sea was 
 moaning and tossing, 
 355 Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of 
 the sea-shore. 
 
 Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of 
 passions contending; 
 
 Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship 
 wounded and bleeding, 
 
 Passionate cries of desire, and importunate plead- 
 ings of duty! 
 
 " Is it my fault," he said, l * that the maiden has 
 chosen between us? 
 
 341 See the last chapter of the Book of Revelation. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 129 
 
 360 Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am 
 
 the victor? " 
 Then within him there thundered a voice, like the 
 
 voice of the Prophet: 
 " It hath displeased the Lord I V — and he thought 
 
 of David's transgression, 
 Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the 
 
 front of the battle! 
 Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and 
 
 self-condemnation, 
 365 Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the 
 
 deepest contrition: 
 11 It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the tempta- 
 tion of Satan ! ' ' 
 
 Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, 
 
 and beheld there 
 Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding 
 
 at anchor, 
 Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on 
 
 the morrow; 
 370 Heard the voices of men through the mist, the 
 
 rattle of cordage 
 Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and 
 
 the sailors' '* Ay, ay, Sir! " 
 Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping 
 
 air of the twilight. 
 Still for a moment he stood, and listened, aDd 
 
 stared at the vessel, 
 Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a 
 
 phantom, 
 375 Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the 
 
 beckoning shadow. 
 "Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; 
 
 u the hand of the Lord is 
 9 
 
130 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bond- 
 age of error, 
 
 Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its 
 waters around me, 
 
 Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts 
 that pursue me. 
 380 Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land 
 will abandon, 
 
 Her whom I may not love, and him whom my 
 heart has offended. 
 
 Better to be in my grave in the green old church- 
 yard in England, 
 
 Close by my mother's side, and among the dust 
 of my kindred; 
 
 Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame 
 and dishonor! 
 385 Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the 
 narrow chamber 
 
 With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel 
 that glimmers 
 
 Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers 
 of silence and darkness, — 
 
 Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal 
 hereafter! " 
 
 Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of 
 his strong resolution, 
 390 Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along 
 in the twilight, 
 Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent 
 
 and sombre, 
 Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of 
 Plymouth, 
 
 392. In a letter written by Edward Winslow, December 11, 
 1621, to a friend in England, he says: "You shall understand 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISII. 131 
 
 Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of 
 the evening. 
 
 Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubta- 
 ble Captain 
 j,95 Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages 
 of Caesar, 
 
 Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or 
 Brabant or Flanders. 
 
 "Long have you been on your errand," he said 
 with a cheery demeanor, 
 
 Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears 
 not the issue. 
 
 * ' Not far off is the house, although the woods are 
 between us; 
 400 But you have lingered so long, that while you 
 were going and coming 
 
 I have fought ten battles and sacked and demol- 
 ished a city. 
 
 Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that 
 has happened.' ' 
 
 Then John Alden spake, and related the won- 
 drous adventure, 
 
 From beginning to end, minutely, just as it hap- 
 pened; 
 I05 How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped 
 in his courtship, 
 
 Only smoothing a little, and softening down her 
 refusal. 
 
 But when he came at length to the words Priscilla 
 had spoken, 
 
 that in this little time that a few of us have been here, we 
 have built seven dwelling-houses and four for the use of the 
 plantation." Young's Chronicles, p. 230. 
 
132 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Words so tender and cruel: " Why don't yon 
 
 speak for yourself, John? " 
 Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped 
 
 on the floor, till his armor 
 410 Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound 
 
 of sinister omen. 
 All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden ex- 
 plosion, 
 E'en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction 
 
 around it. 
 Wildly he shouted, and loud: " John Alden! you 
 
 have betrayed me! 
 Me, Miles Standish, your friend 1 have supplanted, 
 
 defrauded, betrayed me! 
 415 One of my ancestors ran his sword through the 
 
 heart of Wat Tyler; 
 Who shall prevent me from running my own 
 
 through the heart of a traitor? 
 Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason 
 
 to friendship! 
 You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished 
 
 and loved as a brother ; 
 You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my 
 
 cup, to whose keeping 
 4.20 I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most 
 
 sacred and secret, — 
 You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friend- 
 ship hereafter! 
 Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, 
 
 but henceforward 
 Let there be nothing between us save war, and 
 
 implacable hatred! " 
 
 So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode 
 about in the chamber, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 133 
 
 425 Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were 
 
 the veins on his temples. 
 But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at 
 
 the. doorway, 
 Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent 
 
 importance, 
 Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions 
 
 of Indians! 
 Straightway the Captain paused, and, without fur- 
 ther question or parley, 
 4.30 Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its 
 
 scabbard of iron, 
 Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning 
 
 fiercely, departed. 
 Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the 
 
 scabbard 
 Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in 
 
 the distance. 
 Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into 
 
 the darkness, 
 435 Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot 
 
 with the insult, 
 Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his 
 
 hands as in childhood, 
 Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who 
 
 seeth in secret. 
 
 Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrath- 
 ful away to the council, 
 Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting 
 his coming; 
 440 Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in de- 
 portment, 
 Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to 
 heaven, 
 
134 LONGFELLO \V. 
 
 Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder 
 
 of Plymouth. 
 God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat 
 
 for this planting, 
 Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a 
 
 nation ; 
 !15 So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of 
 
 the people ! 
 Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude 
 
 stern and defiant, 
 Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious 
 
 in aspect; 
 While on the table before them was lying unopened 
 
 a Bible, 
 Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed 
 
 in Holland, 
 450 And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake 
 
 glittered, 
 
 442. Elder William Brewster. The elder of the Pilgrim 
 Church was the minister who taught and administered the sac- 
 raments. He was assisted also by an officer named the ruling 
 elder, whose function was much the same as that of the deacon 
 in Congregational churches at the present day. The teaching 
 elder included ruling among his duties ; the ruling elder some- 
 times taught in the absence of his superior; the teaching elder 
 was maintained by the people; the ruling elder was not with- 
 drawn from other occupations, and maintained himself. Brew- 
 ster was the ruling elder in the little Plymouth Church, but in 
 the absence of Robinson was also their teacher. 
 
 443. In Stoughton's election sermon of 1668 occurs the first 
 use, apparently, of this oft-quoted phrase: " God sifted a whole 
 nation that he might send a choice grain over into this wilder- 
 ness." 
 
 449. The Genevan Bible was the favorite version of the Pur- 
 itans, and was clung to long after the King James version had 
 been issued. Owing to obstacles in England, the Bible was 
 frequently printed on the Continent, once at any rate at Am- 
 sterdam. 
 
 450. As a matter of history, the first recorded instance of the 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 135 
 
 Filled, like a quiver, with arrows: a signal and 
 challenge of warfare, 
 
 Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy- 
 tongues of defiance. 
 
 This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and 
 heard them debating 
 
 What were an answer befitting the hostile message 
 and menace, 
 455 Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, 
 objecting; 
 
 One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the 
 Elder, 
 
 Judging it wise and well that some at least were 
 converted, 
 
 Rather than any were slain, for this was but 
 Christian behavior I 
 
 Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Cap- 
 tain of Plymouth, 
 460 Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was 
 husky with anger, 
 
 " What! do you mean to make war with milk and 
 the water of roses ? 
 
 rattlesnake skin challenge was in January, 1622, when Tis- 
 quantum the Indian brought a defiance from Canonicus, and 
 the governor returned the skin stuffed with bullets. Holmes, 
 in his Annals (i. 177), reminds the reader: "There is a re- 
 markable coincidence in the form of this challenge given by 
 the Scythian prince to Darius. Five arrows made a part of the 
 present sent by his herald to the Persian king. The manner of 
 declaring war by the Aracaunian Indians of South America was 
 by sending from town to town an arrow clinched in a dead 
 man's hand." 
 
 457. The poet here has used the words of John Robinson to 
 the colonists after the first encounter with the Indians: "Oh, 
 now happy a thing had it been, if you had converted some be- 
 fore you had killed any ! " 
 
136 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer 
 
 planted 
 There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot 
 
 red devils? 
 Truly the only tongue that is understood by a 
 
 savage 
 \6$ Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the 
 
 mouth of the cannon! " 
 Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder 
 
 of Plymouth, 
 Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent 
 
 language : 
 "Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other 
 
 Apostles ; 
 Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of 
 
 fire they spake with! " 
 470 But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Cap- 
 tain, 
 Who had advanced to the table, and thus con- 
 tinued discoursing: 
 " Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it 
 
 pertaineth 
 War is a terrible traae; but in the cause that is 
 
 righteous, 
 Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer 
 
 the challenge ! " 
 
 475 Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sud- 
 den, contemptuous gesture, 
 
 Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder 
 and bullets 
 
 Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the 
 savage, 
 
 Saying, in thundering tones: u Here, take it 
 this is your answer! " 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 137 
 
 Silently out of the room then glided the glistening 
 
 savage, 
 4.80 Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself 
 
 like a serpent, 
 Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths 
 
 of the forest. 
 
 THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER. 
 
 Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists up- 
 rose from the meadows, 
 
 There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering 
 village of Plymouth; 
 
 Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order im- 
 perative, " Forward !" 
 485 Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and 
 then silence. 
 
 Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of 
 the village. 
 
 Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his 
 valorous army, 
 
 Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of 
 the white men, 
 
 Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of 
 the savage. 
 4.90 Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty 
 men of King David ; 
 
 Giants in heart they were, who believed in God 
 and the Bible, — 
 
 Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and 
 Philistines. 
 
 Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of 
 morning; 
 
138 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, 
 advancing, 
 4.95 Fired along the line, and in regular order re* 
 treated. 
 
 Many a mile had they marched, when at length 
 
 the village of Plymouth 
 Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its mani- 
 fold labors. 
 Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke 
 
 from the chimneys 
 Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily 
 
 eastward ; 
 500 Men came forth from the doors, and paused and 
 
 talked of the weather, 
 Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing 
 
 fair for the Mayflower; 
 Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the 
 
 dangers that menaced, 
 He being gone, the town, and what should be done 
 
 in his absence. 
 Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of 
 
 women 
 505 Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the 
 
 household. 
 Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows re- 
 joiced at his coming; 
 Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the 
 
 mountains ; 
 Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at 
 
 anchor, 
 Battered and blackened and worn by all the 
 
 storms of the winter. 
 510 Loosely against her masts was banging and flapping 
 
 her canvas, 
 
CO URTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 1 39 
 
 Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands 
 
 of the sailors. 
 Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the 
 
 ocean, 
 Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon 
 
 rang 
 Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and 
 
 the echoes 
 5 1 5 Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of 
 
 departure ! 
 Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of 
 
 the people! 
 Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read 
 
 from the Bible, 
 Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fer- 
 vent entreaty! 
 Then from their houses in haste came forth the 
 
 Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
 520 Men and women and children, all hurrying down 
 
 to the sea-shore, 
 Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the 
 
 Mayflower, 
 Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them 
 
 here in the desert. 
 
 Foremost them among was Alden. All night he 
 
 had lain without slumber, 
 Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest 
 
 of his fever. 
 525 He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back 
 
 late from the council, 
 Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and 
 
 murmur, 
 Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it 
 
 sounded like swearing. 
 
±40 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a 
 
 moment in silence; 
 Then he had turned away, and said : " I will not 
 
 awake him; 
 530 Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of 
 
 more talking ! ' ' 
 Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself 
 
 down on his pallet, 
 Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break 
 
 of the morning. — 
 Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his 
 
 campaigns in Flanders, — 
 Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for 
 
 action. 
 535 But with the dawn he arose ; in the twilight Alden 
 
 beheld him 
 Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his 
 
 armor, 
 Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damas- 
 cus, 
 Take from the corner his musket, and so stride 
 
 out of the chamber. 
 Often the heart of the youth had burned and 
 
 yearned to embrace him, 
 540 Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for 
 
 pardon ; 
 All the old friendship came back with its tender 
 
 and grateful emotions; 
 But his pride overmastered the nobler nature 
 
 within him, — 
 Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burn- 
 ing fire of the insult. 
 So he beheld his fri' *d departing in anger, but 
 
 spake not, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 141 
 
 545 Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, 
 
 and he spake not I 
 Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the 
 
 people were saying, 
 Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and 
 
 Richard and Gilbert, 
 Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading 
 
 of' Scripture, 
 And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down 
 
 to the sea-shore, 
 550 Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to 
 
 their feet as a doorstep 
 Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a 
 
 nation ! 
 
 There with his boat was the Master, already a 
 
 little impatient 
 Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might 
 
 shift to the eastward, 
 Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of 
 
 ocean about him, 
 555 Speaking with this one and that, and cramming 
 
 letters and parcels 
 Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled 
 
 together 
 Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly 
 
 bewildered. 
 Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed 
 
 on the gunwale, 
 One still firm on the rock, and talking at times 
 
 with the sailors, 
 560 Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager 
 
 for starting. 
 
 547. The names are not taken at random. Stephen Hop- 
 Vins, Richard Warren, and Gilbert Winslow were all among 
 •die Mayflower passengers, and were alive at this time. 
 
142 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his 
 anguish, 
 
 Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than 
 keel is or canvas, 
 
 Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would 
 rise and pursue him. 
 
 But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form 
 of Priscilla 
 565 Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all 
 that was passing. 
 
 Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined 
 his intention, 
 
 Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, implor- 
 ing, and patient, 
 
 That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled 
 from its purpose, 
 
 As from the verge of a crag, where one step more 
 is destruction. 
 570 Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mys- 
 terious instincts! 
 
 Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are 
 moments, 
 
 Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the 
 wall adamantine! 
 
 " Here I remain! " he exclaimed, as he looked at 
 the heavens above him, 
 
 Thanking the Lord whose breach had scattered 
 the mist and the madness, 
 -75 Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was stagger- 
 ing headlong. 
 
 " Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether 
 above me, 
 
 Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning 
 over the ocean. 
 
 There is another hand, that is not so spectral and 
 ghost-like, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 143 
 
 Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine 
 
 for protection. 
 580 Float, hand of cloud, and vanish away in the 
 
 ether ! 
 Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt 
 
 me; I heed not 
 Either your warning or menace, or any omen of 
 
 evil! 
 .There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so 
 
 wholesome, 
 As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is 
 
 pressed by her footsteps. 
 585 Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible 
 
 presence 
 Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting 
 
 her weakness; ' 
 Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on this 
 
 rock at the landing, 
 So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last 
 
 at the leaving!" 
 
 Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified 
 air and important, 
 £90 Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind 
 and the weather, 
 Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded 
 
 around him 
 Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful 
 
 remembrance. 
 Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were 
 
 grasping a tiller, 
 Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to 
 his vessel, 
 $c 5 Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and 
 flurry, 
 
144 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness 
 
 and sorrow, 
 Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing 
 
 but Gospel! 
 Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell 
 
 of the Pilgrims. 
 O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in 
 
 the Mayflower! 
 600 No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to 
 
 this ploughing! 
 
 Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs 
 
 of the sailors 
 Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the 
 
 ponderous anchor. 
 Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to 
 
 the west- wind, 
 Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower 
 
 sailed from the harbor, 
 605 Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far 
 
 to the southward 
 Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First 
 
 Encounter, 
 Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the 
 
 open Atlantic, 
 Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling 
 
 hearts of the Pilgrims. 
 
 605. The Gurnet, or Gurnet's Nose, is a headland connecting 
 w.th Marshfield by a beach about seven miles long. On its 
 southern extremity are two light-houses which light the en- 
 trance to Plymouth Harbor. 
 
 606. " So after we had given God thanks for our deliver- 
 ance, we took our shallop and went, on our journey, and called 
 this place The First Encounter." Bradford and Winslow's Jour- 
 nal in Young's Chronicles, p. 159. The place on the Easthanj 
 shore marked the spot where the Pilgrims had their first en- 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 145 
 
 Long in silence they watched the receding sail 
 
 of the vessel, 
 610 Much endeared to them all, as something living 
 
 and human; 
 Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a 
 
 vision prophetic, 
 Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of 
 
 Plymouth 
 Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and 
 
 thanked the Lord and took courage. 
 Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the 
 
 rock, and above them 
 615 Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of 
 
 death, and their kindred 
 Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in 
 
 the prayer that they uttered. 
 Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of 
 
 the ocean 
 Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in 
 
 a graveyard ; 
 Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escap- 
 ing. 
 620 Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form 
 
 of an Indian, 
 Watching them from the hill; but while they 
 
 spake with each other, 
 Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, 
 
 ' • Look ! ' ' he had vanished. 
 So they returned to their homes; but Alden lin- 
 gered a little, 
 Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash 
 
 of the billows 
 
 counter with the Indians, December 8, 1620. A party under 
 Miles Standish was exploring the country while the Mayflower 
 vas at anchor in Provincetown Harbor. 
 10 
 
146 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 625 Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and 
 flash of the sunshine, 
 Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the 
 waters. 
 
 VI. 
 
 PRISCILLA. 
 
 Thus .for a while he stood, and mused by the 
 shore of the ocean, 
 
 Thinking of many things, and most of all of Pris- 
 cilla; 
 
 And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, 
 like the loadstone, 
 630 Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nat- 
 ure, 
 
 Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing 
 beside him. 
 
 " Are you so much offended, you will not speak 
 
 tome?" said she. 
 u Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when 
 
 you were pleading 
 Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive 
 
 and wayward, 
 635 Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful per- 
 haps of decorum ? 
 Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so 
 
 frankly, for saying 
 What I ought not to have said, yet now I can 
 
 never unsay it; 
 For there are moments in life, when the heart is 
 
 so full of emotion, 
 
 626. See Genesis i. 2. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 147 
 
 That if b) r chance it be shaken, or into its depths 
 like a pebble 
 640 Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its se- 
 cret, 
 
 Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gath- 
 ered together. 
 
 Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak 
 of Miles Standish, 
 
 Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects 
 into virtues, 
 
 Praising his courage and strength, and even his 
 fighting in Flanders, 
 645 As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of 
 a woman, 
 
 Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalt- 
 ing your hero. 
 
 Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible im- 
 pulse. 
 
 You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the 
 friendship between us, 
 
 Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily 
 broken ! " 
 650 Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the 
 friend of Miles Standish : 
 
 11 1 was not angry with you, with myself alone I 
 was angry, 
 
 Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in 
 my keeping." 
 
 "No!" interrupted the maiden, with answer 
 prompt and decisive; 
 
 "No; you were angry with me, for speaking so 
 frankly and freely. 
 655 It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of 
 a woman 
 
 Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost 
 that is speechless, 
 
148 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of 
 
 its silence. 
 Hence is the inner life of so many suffering 
 
 women 
 Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean 
 
 rivers 
 660 Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, 
 
 unseen, and unfruitful, 
 Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and 
 
 profitless murmurs." 
 Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, 
 
 the lover of women : 
 " Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem 
 
 to me always 
 More like the beautiful rivers that watered the 
 
 garden of Eden, 
 665 More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of 
 
 Havilah flowing, 
 Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet 
 
 of the garden 1 " 
 " Ah, by these words, I can see," again inter- 
 rupted the maiden, 
 " How very little you prize me, or care for what I 
 
 am saying. 
 When from the depths of my heart, in pain and 
 
 with secret misgiving, 
 670 Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only 
 
 and kindness, 
 Straightway you take up my words, that are plain 
 
 and direct and in earnest, 
 Turn them away from their meaning, and answer 
 
 with flattering phrases. 
 
 659. Compare Coleridge, — 
 
 " Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man, 
 Down to a sunless sea." 
 
 Vision of Kubla Khan. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 149 
 
 This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best 
 that is in you; 
 
 For I know and esteem you, and feel that your 
 nature is noble, 
 675 Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 
 
 Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it per- 
 haps the more keenly 
 
 If you say aught that implies I am only as one 
 among many, 
 
 If you make use of those common and complimen- 
 tary phrases 
 
 Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking 
 with women, 
 680 But which women reject as insipid, if not as in- 
 sulting.' ' 
 
 Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and 
 looked at Priscilla, 
 
 Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more 
 divine in her beauty 1 
 
 He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause 
 of another, 
 
 Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking 
 in vain for an answer. 
 685 So the maiden went on, and little divined or im- 
 agined 
 
 What was at work in his heart, that made him so 
 awkward and speechless. 
 
 "Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what 
 we think, and in all things 
 
 Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred 
 professions of friendship. 
 
 It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to de- 
 clare it : 
 590 I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak 
 with you always. 
 
150 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted 
 
 to hear you 
 Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the 
 
 Captain Miles Standish. 
 For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is 
 
 your friendship 
 Than all the love he could give, were he twice the 
 
 hero you think him." 
 695 Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who 
 
 eagerly grasped it, 
 Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching 
 
 and bleeding so sorely, 
 Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, 
 
 with a voice full of feeling: 
 " Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who of- 
 fer you friendship 
 Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest 
 
 and dearest! " 
 
 700 Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail 
 of the Mayflower 
 
 Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the 
 horizon, 
 
 Homeward together they walked, with a strange, 
 indefinite feeling, 
 
 That all the rest had departed and left them alone 
 in the desert. 
 
 But, as they went through the fields in the bless- 
 ing and smile of the sunshine, 
 705 Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very 
 archly : 
 
 " Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pur- 
 suit of the Indians, 
 
 Where he is happier far than he would be com- 
 manding a household, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 151 
 
 You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that 
 
 happened between yon, 
 When you returned last night, and said how un- 
 grateful you found me." 
 Jio Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her 
 
 the whole of the story, — 
 Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of 
 
 Miles Standish. 
 Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between 
 
 laughing and earnest, 
 "He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a 
 
 moment!" 
 But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how 
 
 he had suffered, — 
 715 How he had even determined to sail that day in 
 
 the Mayflower, 
 And had remained for her sake, on hearing the 
 
 dangers that threatened, — 
 All her manner was changed, and she said with a 
 
 faltering accent, 
 " Truly I thank you for this: how good you have 
 
 been to me always! " 
 
 Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jeru- 
 salem journeys, 
 720 Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly 
 backward, 
 
 Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by 
 pangs of contrition; 
 
 Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever 
 advancing, 
 
 Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land 
 of his longings, 
 
 Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by re- 
 morseful misgivincrs. 
 
152 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 
 
 725 Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was march- 
 ing steadily northward, 
 Winding through forest and swamp, and along the 
 
 trend of the sea-shore, 
 All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his 
 
 anger 
 Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous 
 
 odor of powder 
 Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the 
 
 scents of the forest. 
 730 Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved 
 
 his discomfort; 
 He who was used to success, and to easy victories 
 
 always, 
 Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn 
 
 by a maiden, 
 Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend 
 
 whom most he had trusted ! 
 Ah I 'twas too much to be borne, and he fretted 
 
 and chafed in his armor! 
 
 735 "I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for 
 
 mine was the folly. 
 What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and 
 
 gray in the harness, 
 Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the 
 
 wooing of maidens? 
 'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish 
 
 like so many others! 
 What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and 
 
 is worthless; 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 153 
 
 740 Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it 
 
 away, and henceforward 
 Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of 
 
 dangers ! ' , 
 Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and 
 
 discomfort, 
 While he was marching by day or lying at night 
 
 in the forest, 
 Looking up at the trees and the constellations 
 
 beyond them. 
 
 745 After a three days' march he came to an In- 
 dian encampment 
 
 Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the 
 sea and the forest; 
 
 Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, 
 horrid with war-paint, 
 
 Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking to- 
 gether; 
 
 Who, when they saw from afar the sudden ap- 
 proach of the white men, 
 750 Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre 
 and musket, 
 
 Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from 
 among them advancing, 
 
 Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs 
 as a present; 
 
 Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts 
 there was hatred. 
 
 Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers 
 gigantic in stature, 
 
 745. The poet has taken his material for this expedition of 
 Standish's from the report in Window's Relation of Standish's 
 Expedition against the Indians of Weymouth, and the breaking 
 up of Weston's Colony at that place, in March, 1623, as given 
 n Dr. Young's Chronicles. 
 
154 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 •j$$ Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king 
 
 of Bashan; 
 One was Pecksuot named, and the other was 
 
 called Wattawamat. 
 Round their necks were suspended their knives 
 
 in scabbards of wampum, 
 Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp 
 
 as a needle. 
 Other arms had they none, for they were cunning 
 
 and crafty. 
 760 " Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words 
 
 they had learned from the traders 
 Touching at times on the coast, to barter and 
 
 chaffer for peltries. 
 Then in their native tongue they began to parley 
 
 with Standish, 
 Through his 'guide and interpreter, Hobomok, 
 
 friend of the white man, 
 Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for 
 
 muskets and powder, 
 765 Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with 
 
 the plague, in his cellars, 
 Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the 
 
 red man ! 
 But when Standish refused, and said he would 
 
 give them the Bible, 
 Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast 
 
 and to bluster. 
 Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front 
 
 of the other, 
 770 And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly 
 
 spake to the Captain: 
 " Now Wattawamat, can see, by the fiery eyes of 
 
 the Captain, 
 Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the 
 
 brave Wattawamat 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SU. 155 
 
 Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a 
 
 woman, 
 But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree 
 
 riven by lightning, 
 775 Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons 
 
 about him, 
 Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the 
 
 brave Wattawamat? ' " 
 Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the 
 
 blade on his left hand, 
 Held it. aloft and displayed a woman's face on the 
 
 handle, 
 Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister 
 
 meaning : 
 780 u I have another at home, with the face of a man 
 
 on the handle ; 
 By and by they shall marry ; and there will be 
 
 plenty of children ! ' ■ 
 
 Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, in- 
 sulting Miles Standish; 
 While with his fingers he patted the knife that 
 hung at his bosom, 
 
 775. ' ' Among the rest Wituwamat bragged of the excellency 
 of his knife. On the end of the handle there was pictured a 
 woman's face; 'but,' said he, ■ I have another at home where- 
 with I have killed both French and English, and that hath a 
 man's face on it, and by and by these two must marry.' Fur- 
 ther he said of that knife he there had, Hinnaim namen, hin- 
 naim michen, matta cuts ; that is to say, By and by it should 
 see, and by and by it should eat, but not speak. Also Peck- 
 suot, being a man of greater stature than the captain, told him, 
 though he were a great captain, yet he was but a little man ; 
 und, said he, though I be no sachem, yet I am a man of great 
 strength and courage." Winslow's Relation. The poet turns 
 the whole incident of Standish's parley and killing of the In- 
 dians into a more open and brave piece of conduct than th* 
 chronicle admits. 
 
156 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it 
 
 back, as he muttered, 
 785 " By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha 1 but 
 
 shall speak not! 
 This is the mighty Captain the white men have 
 
 sent to destroy us! 
 He is a little man; let him go and work with the 
 
 women! " 
 
 Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and 
 
 figures of Indians 
 Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in 
 
 the forest, 
 790 Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on 
 
 their bow-strings, 
 Drawing about him still closer and closer the net 
 
 of their ambush. 
 But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and 
 
 treated them smoothly; 
 So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the 
 
 days of the fathers. 
 But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the 
 
 taunt, and the insult, 
 795 All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of 
 
 Thurston de Standish, 
 Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the 
 
 veins of his temples. 
 Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching 
 
 his knife from its scabbard, 
 Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, 
 
 the savage 
 Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike 
 
 fierceness upon it. 
 800 Straight there arose from the forest the awfu* 
 
 sound of the war-whoop, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 157 
 
 And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind 
 
 of December, 
 Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of 
 
 feathery arrows. 
 Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud 
 
 came the lightning, 
 Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen 
 
 ran before it. 
 805 Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp 
 
 and in thicket, 
 Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the 
 
 brave Wattawamat, 
 Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift 
 
 had a bullet 
 Passed through his brain, and he fell with both 
 
 hands clutching the greensward, 
 Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the 
 
 land of his fathers. 
 
 810 There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors 
 
 lay, and above them, 
 Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomokr, friend 
 
 of the white man. 
 Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart 
 
 Captain of Plymouth : 
 41 Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his 
 
 strength and his stature, — 
 
 811. "Hobbamock stood by all this time as a spectator, and 
 meddled not, observing how our men demeaned themselves in 
 this action. All being here ended, smiling, he brake forth into 
 these speeches to the Captain : ' Yesterday Pecksuot, bragging 
 of his own strength and stature, said, though you were a great 
 captain, yet you were but a little man ; but to-day I see you 
 are big enough to lay him on the ground.' " Winslow's Rda? 
 Uon. 
 
158 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little 
 man; but I see now 
 815 Big enough have you been to lay him speechless 
 before you ! ' ' 
 
 Thus the first battle was fought and won by the 
 stalwart Miles Stand ish. 
 
 When the tidings thereof were brought to the vil- 
 lage of Plymouth, 
 
 And as a trophy of war the head of the brave 
 Wattawamat 
 
 Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once 
 was a church and a fortress, 
 820 All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, 
 and took courage. 
 
 Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre 
 of terror, 
 
 Thanking God in her heart that she had not mar- 
 ried Miles Standish; 
 
 Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from 
 his battles, 
 
 He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and 
 reward of his valor. 
 
 818. M Now was the Captain returned and received with joy, 
 the head being brought to the fort, and there set up." Wins- 
 low's Relation. The custom of exposing the heads of offenders 
 in this way was familiar enough to the Plymouth people before 
 they left England. As late as the year 1747 the heads of the 
 lords who were concerned in the Scot's Rebellion were set up 
 Dver Temple Bar, in London. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 159 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 825 Month after montli passed away, and in Autumn 
 
 the ships of the merchants 
 Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and 
 
 corn for the Pilgrims. 
 All in the village was peace; the men were intent 
 
 on their labors, 
 Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot 
 
 and with merestead, 
 Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the 
 
 grass in the meadows, 
 830 Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the 
 
 deer in the forest. 
 All in the village was peace ; but at times the 
 
 rumor of warfare 
 Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of 
 
 danger. 
 Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the 
 
 land with his forces, 
 Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien 
 
 armies, 
 835 Till his name had become a sound of fear to the 
 
 nations. 
 Anger was still in his heart, but at times the re- 
 morse and contrition 
 
 825. The poet again has moved the narrative forward, taking ■ 
 Standish's return from his expedition as the date from which 
 after events are measured. The Anne and the Little James 
 came at the beginning of August, 1623. 
 
 828. Mere or meare in Old English is boundary, and mere- 
 stead becomes the bounded lot. The first entry in the records 
 of Plymouth Colony is an incomplete list of " The Meersteads 
 and Garden-plotes of those which came first, layed out, 1620." 
 
160 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate 
 
 outbreak, 
 Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush 
 
 of a river, 
 Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter 
 
 and brackish. 
 
 B40 Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new 
 
 habitation, 
 Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the 
 
 firs of the forest. 
 Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was 
 
 covered with rushes ; 
 Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes 
 
 were of paper, 
 Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were 
 
 excluded. 
 845 There too he dug a well, and around it planted an 
 
 orchard: 
 Still may be seen to this day some trace of the 
 
 well and the orchard. 
 Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and 
 
 secure from annoyance, 
 
 843. When the Fortune which visited the colony in Novem- 
 ber, 1621, returned to England, Edward Winslow wrote by it a 
 letter of advice to those who were thinking of emigrating to 
 America, in which he says: "Bring paper and linseed oil for 
 your windows." Even in the time of Henry VIII. in England, 
 £lass windows were considered a luxury. When the Duke of 
 Northumberland, in Elizabeth's time, left Alnwick Castle to 
 come to London for the winter, the few glass windows which 
 formed one of the luxuries of the castle were carefully taken 
 out and laid away, perhaps carried to London to adorn the city 
 residence. 
 
 846. The Alden family still retain John Alden's homestead 
 in Duxbury, and the present house is said to stand on the sit« 
 of the one originally built there. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 161 
 
 Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to 
 
 Alden's allotment 
 In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the 
 
 night-time 
 850 Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by 
 
 sweet pennyroyal. 
 
 Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet 
 
 would the dreamer 
 Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to 
 
 the house of Priscilla, 
 Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions 
 
 of fancy, 
 Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the sem- 
 blance of friendship. 
 855 Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the 
 
 walls of his dwelling; 
 Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil 
 
 of his garden ; 
 Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible 
 
 on Sunday 
 Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described 
 
 in the Proverbs, — 
 How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in 
 
 her always, 
 86 :> How all the days of her life she will do him good, 
 
 and not evil, 
 How she seeketh the wool and the flax and work- 
 
 eth with gladness, 
 How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth 
 
 the distaff, 
 How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or 
 
 her household, 
 Knowing her household are clothed with the scar 
 
 let cloth of her weaving! 
 11 
 
162 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 865 So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the 
 
 Autumn, 
 Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her 
 
 dexterous fingers, 
 As if the thread she was spinning were that of his 
 
 life and his fortune, 
 After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound 
 
 of the spindle. 
 " Truly, Priscilla," he said, " when I see you 
 
 spinning and spinning, 
 870 Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful 
 
 of others, 
 Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed 
 
 in a moment ; 
 You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beau- 
 tiful Spinner." 
 Here the light foot on the jreadle grew swifter 
 
 and swifter ; the spindle 
 Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped 
 
 short in her fingers; 
 875 While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mis- 
 chief, continued : 
 You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the 
 
 queen of Helvetia; 
 She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of 
 
 Southampton, 
 Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and 
 
 meadow and mountain, 
 Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff 
 
 fixed to her saddle. 
 8$c She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed 
 
 into a proverb. 
 
 872. The legend of Bertha is given with various learning 
 regarding it in a monograph entitled, Bertha die Spinnerin, by 
 Karl Joseph Simrock, Frankfurt, 1853. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 163 
 
 So shall it be with your own, when the spinning- 
 wheel shall no longer 
 
 Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its cham- 
 bers with music. 
 
 Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it 
 was in their childhood, 
 
 Praising the good old times, and the days of Pris- 
 cilla the spinner! " 
 885 Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puri- 
 tan maiden, 
 
 Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him 
 whose praise was the sweetest, 
 
 Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of 
 her spinning, 
 
 Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering 
 phrases of Alden: 
 
 " Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern 
 for housewives, 
 890 Show yourself equally worthy of being the model 
 of husbands. 
 
 Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, 
 ready for knitting ; 
 
 Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions 
 have changed and the manners, 
 
 Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old 
 times of John Alden ! " 
 
 Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his 
 hands she adjusted, 
 B95 He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms ex- 
 tended before him, 
 
 She standing graceful, erect, and winding the 
 thread from his fingers, 
 
 Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of 
 holding, 
 
 Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled 
 expertly 
 
164 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how 
 could she help it ? — 
 900 Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in 
 his body. 
 
 Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless 
 
 messenger entered, 
 Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from 
 
 the village. 
 Yes ; Miles Standish was dead ! — an Indian had 
 
 brought them the tidings, — 
 Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front 
 
 of the battle, 
 905 Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole 
 
 of his forces ; 
 All the town would be burned, and all the people 
 
 be murdered ! 
 Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the 
 
 hearts of the hearers. 
 Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face 
 
 looking backward 
 Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted 
 
 in horror ; 
 910 But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the 
 
 arrow 
 Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his 
 
 own, and had sundered 
 Once and forever the bonds that held him bound 
 
 as a captive, 
 Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight 
 
 of his freedom, 
 Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what 
 
 he was doing, 
 915 Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form 
 
 of Priscilla, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 1G5 
 
 Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, 
 
 and exclaiming: 
 " Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man 
 
 put them asunder !" 
 
 Even as rivulets twain, from distant and sepa- 
 rate sources, 
 Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the 
 
 rocks, and pursuing 
 ^20 Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and 
 
 nearer, 
 Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the 
 
 forest; 
 So these lives that had run thus far in separate 
 
 channels, 
 Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and 
 
 flowing asunder, 
 Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and 
 
 nearer, 
 925 Rushed together at last, and one was lost in th* 
 
 other. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of 
 purple and scarlet, 
 
 Issued the sun, the great High- Priest, in his gar- 
 ments resplendent, 
 
 Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his 
 forehead, 
 
 Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and 
 pomegranates. 
 
 927. For a description of the Jewisb high-priest and his dress, 
 6ee Exodus, chapter xxviii. 
 
166 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 930 Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor 
 beneath him 
 Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his 
 feet was a laver ! 
 
 This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the 
 
 Puritan maiden. 
 Friends were assembled together; the Elder and 
 
 Magistrate also 
 Graced the scene with their presence, and stood 
 
 like the Law and the Gospel, 
 J35 One with the sanction of earth and one with the 
 
 blessing of heaven. 
 Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth 
 
 and of Boaz. 
 Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the 
 
 words of betrothal, 
 Taking each other for husband and wife in the 
 
 Magistrate's presence, 
 Ifter the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of 
 
 Holland. 
 r>*t Fervently then and devoutly, the excellent Elder 
 
 of Plymouth 
 Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were 
 
 founded that day in affection, 
 Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Di- 
 vine benedictions. 
 
 fc»39. "May 12 was the first marriage in this place, which, 
 ccvrding to the laudable custome of the Low-Cun tries, in 
 vhich they had lived, was thought most requisite to be per- 
 formed by the magistrate, as being a civill thing, upon which 
 many questions aboute inheritances doe depende, with other 
 Ahings most proper to their cognizans, and most consonante to 
 the scripturs, Kuth 4. and no wher found in the gospell to be 
 ,'ayed on the ministers as a part of their office." Bradford's 
 History, p. 101. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 167 
 
 Lo! when the service was ended, a form ap- 
 peared on the threshold, 
 
 Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful 
 figure ! 
 jj45 Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the 
 strange apparition? 
 
 Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face 
 on his shoulder? 
 
 Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illu- 
 sion? 
 
 Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to for- 
 bid the betrothal? 
 
 Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, 
 un welcomed; 
 950 Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times 
 an expression 
 
 Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart 
 hidden beneath them, 
 
 As when across the sky the driving rack of the 
 rain-cloud 
 
 Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by 
 its brightness. 
 
 Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, 
 but was silent, 
 
 952. Rack, a Shaksperian word, used possibly in two senses, 
 sither as vapor, as in the thirty-third sonnet, — 
 " Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 With ugly rack on his celestial face," 
 which is plainly the meaning here, or as a light, cirrus cloud, 
 as in the Tempest, Act IV. Scene 1 : — 
 
 " And like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind," 
 although here, also, the meaning of vapor might be admissible. 
 Bacon has defined rack : " The winds, which wave the clouda 
 above, which we call the rack, and are not perceived below 
 pass without noise." 
 
168 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 955 As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting inten- 
 tion. 
 
 But when were ended the troth and the prayer 
 and the last benediction, 
 
 Into the room it strode, and the people beheld 
 with amazement 
 
 Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Cap- 
 tain of Plymouth ! 
 
 Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with 
 emotion, " Forgive me! 
 960 I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I 
 cherished the feeling; 
 
 I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! 
 it is ended. 
 
 Mine is the same hot blood, that leaped in the veins 
 of Hugh Standish, 
 
 Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning 
 for error. 
 
 Never so much as now was Miles Standish the 
 friend of John Alden." 
 965 Thereupon answered the bridegroom : ' ' Let all be 
 forgotten between us, — 
 
 All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall 
 grow older and dearer ! ' ! 
 
 Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted 
 Priscilla, 
 
 Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned 
 gentry in England, 
 
 Something of camp and of court, of town and of 
 country, commingled, 
 970 Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly laud- 
 ing her husband. 
 
 Then he said with a smile: "I should have re- 
 membered the adage, — 
 
 If you would be well served, you must serve your 
 self; and moreover, 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 169 
 
 No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season 
 of Christmas! " 
 
 Great was the people's amazement, and greater 
 yet their rejoicing, 
 975 Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of 
 their Captain, 
 
 Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gath- 
 ered and crowded about hiin, 
 
 Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride 
 and of bridegroom, 
 
 Questioning, answering, laughing, and each inter- 
 rupting the other, 
 
 Till the good Captain declared, being quite over- 
 powered and bewildered, 
 980 He had rather by far break into an Indian encamp- 
 ment, 
 
 Than come again to a wedding to which he had 
 not been invited. 
 
 Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood 
 
 with the bride at the doorway, 
 Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and 
 
 beautiful morning. 
 Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad 
 
 in the sunshine, 
 985 Lay extended before them the land of toil and 
 
 privation ; 
 There were the graves of the dead, and the barren 
 
 waste of the sea-shore, 
 There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and 
 
 the meadows ; 
 But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the 
 
 Garden of Eden, 
 Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was 
 
 the sound of the ocean. 
 
170 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 990 Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise 
 and stir of departure, 
 
 Friends coming forth from the house, and impa- 
 tient of longer delaying, 
 
 Each with his plan for the day, and the work that 
 was left uncompleted. 
 
 Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclama- 
 tions of wonder, 
 
 Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so 
 proud of Priscilla, 
 995 Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand 
 of its master, 
 
 Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its 
 nostrils, 
 
 Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed 
 for a saddle. 
 
 She should not walk, he said, through the dust 
 and heat of the noonday ; 
 
 Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along 
 like a peasant. 
 1000 Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the 
 others, 
 
 Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the 
 hand of her husband, 
 
 Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her 
 palfrey. 
 
 11 Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, 
 11 but the distaff; 
 
 Then you would be in truth my queen, my beau- 
 tiful Bertha! " 
 
 1005 Onward the bridal procession now moved to 
 their new habitation, 
 Happy husband and wife, and friends convers- 
 ing together. 
 
COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 171 
 
 Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed 
 the ford in the forest, 
 
 Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream 
 of love through its bosom, 
 
 Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the 
 azure abysses. 
 10 10 Down through the golden leaves the sun was 
 pouring his splendors, 
 
 Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches 
 above them suspended, 
 
 Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of 
 the pine and the fir-tree, 
 
 Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the 
 valley of Eschol. 
 
 Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pas- 
 toral ages, 
 I015 Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling 
 Rebecca and Isaac, 
 
 Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful 
 always, 
 
 Love immortal and young in the endless succes- 
 sion of lovers. 
 
 So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 
 the bridal procession. 
 
 Miles Standish was not inconsolable. In the Fortune came a 
 certain Barbara, whose last name is unknown, whom Standish 
 married. He had six children, and many of his descendants 
 %re living. 
 
in. 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 [The form of this poem was perhaps suggested 
 by Schiller's Song of the Bell, which, tracing the 
 history of a bell from the first finding of the metal 
 to the hanging of the bell in the tower, so mingles 
 the history of human life with it that the Bell be- 
 comes the symbol of humanity. Schiller's poem 
 introduced a new artistic form which has since been 
 copied more than once, but nowhere so successfully 
 as in The Building of the Ship. The changes in 
 the measure mark the quickening or retarding of 
 the thought. The reader will be interested in 
 watching th,ese changes and observing the fitness 
 with which the short lines express the quicker, 
 more sudden, or hurried action, while the longer 
 ones indicate lingering, moderate action or reflec- 
 tion. The Building of the Ship is the first in a 
 series of poems collected under the general title, 
 By the Seaside, and published in a volume entitled, 
 The Seaside and the Fireside, Boston, 185 O.J 
 
 u Build me straight, O worthy Master! 
 
 Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
 That shall laugh at all disaster, 
 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle I 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 173 
 
 5 The merchant's word 
 Delighted the Master heard; 
 For his heart was in his work, and the heart 
 Giveth grace unto every Art. 
 
 A quiet smile played round his lips, 
 
 io As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
 Play round the bows of ships, 
 That steadily at anchor ride. 
 And with a voice that was full of glee, 
 He answered, " Ere long we will launch 
 
 15 A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
 As ever weathered a wintry sea 1 " 
 And first with nicest skill and art, 
 Perfect and finished in every part, 
 A little model the Master wrought, 
 
 20 Which should be to the larger plan 
 What the child is to the man, 
 Its counterpart in miniature; 
 That with a hand more swift and sure 
 The greater labor might be brought 
 
 25 To answer to his inward thought. 
 And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
 The various ships that were built of yore, 
 And above them all, and strangest of all 
 Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
 
 29. The Great Harry was a famous ship built for the Eng- 
 lish navy in the reign of King Henry VII. Henry found the 
 small navy left by Edward IV. in a very weak condition and 
 he undertook to reconstruct it. The most famous ship in Ed- 
 ward's navy was named Grace a Dieu, and Henry named his 
 Harry Grace a Dieu, but she was more generally named as the 
 Great Harry. On the accession of Henry VIII, her name was 
 changed to the Regent, but when a few years afterward she was 
 Durnt in an engagement with the French, the ship built in her 
 Dlace resumed the old name and became a second Great Harry. 
 
L74 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 30 Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
 With bows and stern raised high in air, 
 And balconies hanging here and there, 
 And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
 And eight round towers, like those that frown 
 
 35 From some old castle, looking down 
 Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
 And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 
 Shall be of another form than this ! " 
 
 It was of another form, indeed; 
 
 40 Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
 A beautiful and gallant craft; 
 Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 
 Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
 Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 
 
 45 Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
 With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
 That she might be docile to the helm, 
 And that the currents of parted seas, 
 Closing behind, with mighty force, 
 
 50 Might aid and not impede her course. 
 
 In the ship-yard stood the Master, 
 
 With the model of the vessel, 
 That should laugh at all disaster, 
 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! 
 
 It was this ship that the poet describes. She was a thousand 
 tons burden, which was regarded as an immense size in those 
 days, and her crew and armament were out of all proportion, as 
 we should think now. She carried seven hundred men, and a 
 hundred and twenty-two guns, but of these most were very 
 small. Thirty-four were eighteen pounders, and were called 
 sulverins. There were also demi-culverins, or nine pounders, 
 while the rest only carried one or two pounds and were variously 
 aamed falcons, falconets, serpentines, sabinets. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 175 
 
 55 Covering many a rood of ground, 
 Lay the timber piled around; 
 Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 
 And scattered here and there, with these, 
 The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 
 
 60 Brought from regions far away, 
 From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 
 And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! 
 Ah! what a wondrous thing it is 
 To note how many wheels of toil 
 
 65 One thought, one word, can set in motion! 
 There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
 But every climate, every soil, 
 Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
 And help to build the wooden wall ! 
 
 70 The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
 And long the level shadows lay, 
 As if they, too, the beams would be 
 Of some great, airy argosy, 
 
 69. The wooden wall is of course the ship. The reference is 
 to a proverbial expression of very ancient date. When the 
 Greeks sent to Delphi to ask how they were to defend them- 
 selves against Xerxes, who had invaded their country, the oracle 
 replied: — 
 
 " Pallas hath urged, and Zeus the sire of all 
 Hath safety promised in a wooden wall ; 
 Seed-time and harvest, weeping sires shall tell 
 How thousands fought at Salamis and fell." 
 The Greeks interpreted this as a caution to trust in their navy, 
 and the battle at Salamis resulted in the overthrow of the Per- 
 sian and discomfiture of their fleet. 
 
 73. A richly freighted ship. The word is formed from Argo, 
 the name of the fabled ship which brought back the golden fleece 
 from Colchis. Shakspere uses the word : as in the The Taming 
 \fthe Shrew : — 
 
 " That she shall have ; besides an argosy 
 That now is lying in Marseilles' road." 
 
 Act II. Scene 1. 
 
176 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Framed and launched in a single day, 
 75 That silent architect, the sun, 
 
 Had hewn and laid them every one, 
 
 Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
 
 Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
 
 A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
 80 Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
 
 Only the long waves, as they broke 
 
 In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
 
 Interrupted the old man's speech. 
 
 Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
 85 The old man and the fiery youth! 
 
 The old man, in whose busy brain 
 
 Many a ship that sailed the main 
 
 Was modelled o'er and o'er again; — 
 
 The fiery youth, who was to be 
 90 The heir of his dexterity, 
 
 The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, 
 
 When he had built and launched from land 
 
 What the elder head had planned. 
 
 And in The Merchant of Venice : — 
 
 "He hath an argosy hound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I 
 understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a 
 fourth for England." Act. I. Scene 3. 
 
 87. The main is the great ocean as distinguished from the 
 bays, gulfs, and inlets. Curiously enough, it means also the 
 main-land, and was used in both senses by Elizabethan writers. 
 In King Lear, Act III. Scene 1 : — 
 
 " Bids the wind hlow the earth into the sea, 
 Or swell the curled waters 'hove the main " — 
 
 some commentators take main to be the main-land, but a bettei 
 sense seems to refer it to the open sea when a storm is raging 
 Yet the name of Spanish Main was given to the northern coast 
 if South America when that country was taken possession of bj 
 Spain. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 177 
 I * 
 
 " Thus," said he, M will we build this ship! 
 
 95 Liay square the blocks upon the slip, 
 
 And follow well this plan of mine. 
 
 Choose the timbers with greatest care ^ 
 
 Of all that is unsound beware; 
 
 For only what is sound and strong ■ 
 ioo To this vessel shall belong. 
 
 Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
 
 Here together shall combine. 
 
 A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
 
 And the Union be her name! 
 105 For the day that gives her to the sea 
 
 Shall give my daughter unto theel " 
 
 The Master's word 
 
 Enraptured the young man heard ; 
 
 And as he turned his face aside, 
 no With a look of joy and a thrill of pride. 
 
 Standing before 
 
 Her father's door, 
 
 He saw the form of his promised bride. 
 
 The sun shone on her golden hair, 
 115 And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 
 
 With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 
 
 Like a beauteous barge was she, 
 
 Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
 
 95. The slip is the inclined bank on which the ship is built. A 
 limilar meaning attaches to the use of the word locally in New 
 York, where Peck Slip, Coenties Slip, Burling Slip, originally 
 denoted the inclined openings between wharves. 
 
 104. Here, as was noted in Schiller's Song of the Bell, the poet 
 touches the ship with a special human interest and by his refer- 
 ince to Maine cedar, and Georgia pine, half reveals the largei 
 jmd wider sense of the building of the ship, which is disclosed 
 *t the end of the poem. 
 12 
 
17* LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Just beyond the billow's reach; 
 120 But he 
 
 Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! 
 
 Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
 That obeyeth Love's command! 
 It is the heart, and not the brain, 
 125 That to the highest doth attain, 
 
 And he who followeth Love's behest 
 Far excelleth all the rest! 
 
 Thus with the rising of the sun 
 Was the noble task begun, 
 
 130 And soon throughout the ship-yard's boundi 
 Were heard the intermingled sounds 
 Of axes and of mallets, plied 
 With vigorous arms on every side; 
 Plied so deftly and so well, 
 
 135 That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 
 The keel of oak for a noble ship, 
 Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 
 Was lying ready, and stretched along 
 The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
 
 140 Happy, thrice happy, every one 
 Who sees his labor well begun, 
 And not perplexed and multiplied, 
 By idly waiting for time and tide ! 
 
 And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
 145 The young man at the Master's door 
 Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
 And within the porch, a little more 
 Removed beyond the evening chill, 
 The father sat, and told them tales 
 150 Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 179 
 
 Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
 And ships that never came back again, 
 The chance and change of a sailor's life, 
 Want and plenty, rest and strife, 
 
 155 His roving fancy, like the wind, 
 
 That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 
 And the magic charm of foreign lands, 
 With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 
 Where the tumbling surf, 
 
 160 O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
 
 Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
 As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
 And the trembling maiden held her breath 
 At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
 
 165 With all its terror and mystery, 
 
 The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
 That divides and yet unites mankind! 
 And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
 From- the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
 
 170 The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
 And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; 
 And for a moment one might mark 
 What had been hidden by the dark, 
 That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
 
 175 Tenderly, on the young man's breast! 
 
 151. See note to line 87. Here the Spanish Main is used, as 
 Iras most anciently the custom, of the northern coast of South 
 A-merica. This is probably also the sense in the Wreck of the 
 Uesperuz ? — 
 
 11 Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
 
 Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
 ' I pray thee put into yonder port, 
 For I fear a hurricane.' " 
 
 153. " That among all the changes and chances of this mortal 
 life, they may ever be defended by Thy most gracious and ready 
 help." From a Collect in the Communion office, Book of Com- 
 mon Prayer. 
 
180 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Day by day the vessel grew, 
 
 With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
 
 Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 
 
 Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
 1 80 A skeleton ship rose up to view 1 
 
 And around the bows and along the side 
 
 The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 
 
 Till after many a week, at length, 
 
 Wonderful for form and strength, 
 185 Sublime in its enormous bulk, 
 
 Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! 
 
 And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 
 
 Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 
 
 Cauldron, that glowed, 
 190 And overflowed 
 
 With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 
 
 And amid the clamors 
 
 Of clattering hammers, 
 
 He who listened heard now and then 
 195 The song of the Master and his men: — 
 
 " Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
 Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
 
 That shall laugh at all disaster, 
 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" 
 
 200 With oaken brace and copper band, 
 
 Lay the rudder on the sand, 
 
 That, like a thought, should have control 
 
 Over the movement of the whole; 
 
 And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 
 205 Would reach down and grapple with the land, 
 
 And immovable and fast 
 
 Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast 1 
 
 And at the bows an image stood, 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 181 
 
 By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
 2io With robes of white, that far behind 
 
 Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
 
 It was not shaped in a classic mould, 
 
 Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 
 
 Or Naiad rising from the water, 
 215 But modelled from the Master's daughter! 
 
 On many a dreary and misty night, 
 
 'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 
 
 Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 
 
 Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
 220 The pilot of some phantom bark, 
 
 Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 
 
 By a path none other knows aright I 
 
 Behold, at last, 
 
 Each tall and tapering mast 
 225 Is swung into its place; 
 
 214. Strictly speaking, the Naiad was a nymph, the nymphs 
 being the inferior order of deities that were supposed to reside in 
 different parts of nature, naiads in the sea, dryads in trees, 
 oreads in mountains. 
 
 215. Hawthorne has a charming story upon the romance of a 
 figure-head in Browne's Wooden Image in Mosses from an Old 
 Manse. 
 
 219. Sarks or shifts were made first of silk, whence the name 
 derived from the Latin sericum, silk. 
 
 225. Mr. Longfellow prints the following note to this and the 
 two preceding lines : "I wish to anticipate a criticism on this 
 passage by stating, that sometimes, though not usually, vessels 
 are launched fully rigged and sparred. I have availed myself 
 of the exception, as better suited to my purposes than the gen- 
 eral rule ; but the reader will see that it is neither a blunder nor 
 * poetic license. On this subject a friend in Portland, Maine, 
 writes me thus : ' In this State, and also, I am told, in New 
 York, ships are sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to 
 save time, or to make a show. There was a fine, large ship 
 launched last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged and sparred. 
 
182 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 Shrouds and stays 
 Holding it firm and fast! 
 
 Long ago, 
 
 In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
 230 When upon mountain and plain 
 
 Lay the snow, 
 
 They fell, — those lordly pines! 
 
 Those grand, majestic pines! 
 
 'Mid shouts and cheers 
 235 The jaded steers, 
 
 Panting beneath the goad, 
 
 Dragged down the weary, winding road 
 
 Those captive kings so straight and tall, 
 
 To be shorn of their streaming hair, 
 240 And, naked and bare, 
 
 To feel the stress and the strain 
 
 Of the wind and the reeling main, 
 
 Whose roar 
 
 Would remind them forevermore 
 245 Of their native forests they should not see again. 
 
 And everywhere 
 The slender, graceful spars 
 Poise aloft in the air, 
 And at the mast-head, 
 250 White, blue, and red, 
 
 A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 
 
 Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 
 
 In foreign harbors shall behold 
 
 That flag unrolled, 
 
 Some years ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, 
 spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day and 
 was never heard of again ! I hope this will not be the fate o! 
 your poem ! ' " 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 183 
 
 255 'T will be as a friendly hand 
 
 Stretched out from his native land, 
 
 Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless! 
 
 All is finished I and at length 
 
 Has come the bridal day 
 260 Of beauty and of strength. 
 
 To-day the vessel shall be launched! 
 
 With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
 
 And o'er the bay, 
 
 Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
 265 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
 
 The ocean old, 
 
 Centuries old, 
 
 Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
 
 Paces restless to and fro, 
 270 Up and down the sands of gold. 
 
 His beating heart is not at. rest; 
 
 And far and wide, 
 
 With ceaseless flow, 
 
 His beard of snow 
 275 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
 
 He waits impatient for his bride. 
 
 There she stands, 
 
 With her foot upon the sands, 
 
 Decked with flags and streamers gay, 
 280 In honor of her marriage day, 
 
 Her snow-white signals flattering, blending, 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, 
 
 Ready to be 
 
 The bride of the gray old sea. 
 
 266. This and the next eighteen lines illustrate well the skill 
 with which the poet changes the length of the lines to denote an 
 impatient, abrupt, and as it were short breathing movement. 
 
184 LONGFELLO W. 
 
 285 On the deck another bride 
 Is standing by her lover's side. 
 Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
 Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
 Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
 
 290 Fall around them on the deck. 
 
 The prayer is said, 
 
 The service read, 
 
 The joyous bridpojroom bows his head; 
 
 And, in tears the good old Master 
 
 295 Shakes the brown hand of his son, 
 Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 
 In silence, for he cannot speak, 
 And ever faster 
 Down his own the tears begun to run. 
 
 300 The worthy pastor — 
 
 The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
 That has the ocean for its wold, 
 That has the vessel for its fold, 
 Leaping ever from rock to rock — 
 
 305 Spake, with accents mild and clear, 
 Words of warning, words of cheer, 
 But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 
 He knew the chart 
 Of the sailor's heart, 
 
 310 All its pleasures and its griefs, 
 All its shallows and rocky reefs, 
 All those secret currents, that flow 
 With such resistless undertow, 
 And lift and drift, with terrible force, 
 
 315 The will from its moorings and its course. 
 Therefore he spake, and thus said he: — 
 M Like unto ships far off at sea, 
 Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 185 
 
 Before, behind, and all around, 
 
 320 Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 
 Seems at its distant rim to rise 
 And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
 And then again to turn and sink, 
 As if we could slide from its outer brink. 
 
 325 Ah! it is not the sea, 
 
 It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 
 
 But ourselves 
 
 That rock and rise 
 
 With endless and uneasy motion, 
 
 330 Now touching the very skies, 
 
 Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
 Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 
 Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
 Ever level and ever true . 
 
 335 To the toil and the. task we have to do, 
 We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
 The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
 The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 
 Will be those of joy and not of fear! " 
 
 340 Then the Master, 
 
 With a gesture of command, 
 
 Waved his hand ; 
 
 And at the word, 
 
 Loud and sudden there was heard, 
 345 All around them and below, 
 
 The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 
 
 Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
 
 And see! she stirs! 
 
 337. The Fortunate Isles, or Isles of the Blest, were imagin- 
 ary islands in the West, in classic mythology, set in a sea which 
 was warmed by the rays of the declining sun. Hither the fa- 
 vorites of the gods were borne and dwelt in endless joy. 
 
186 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 
 350 The thrill of life along her keel, 
 
 And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
 With one exulting, joyous bound, 
 She leaps into the ocean's arms! 
 
 And lo! from the assembled crowd 
 355 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
 That to the ocean seemed to say, 
 11 Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
 Take her to thy protecting arms, 
 With all her youth and all her charms 1 " 
 
 360 How beautiful she is ! How fair 
 
 She lies within those arms, that press 
 Her form with many a soft caress 
 Of tenderness and watchful care! 
 Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 
 
 365 Through wind and wave, right onward steez 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life, 
 
 O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
 370 And safe from all adversity 
 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 
 Thy comings and thy goings be! 
 
 For gentleness and love and trust 
 
 Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
 575 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 
 Something immortal still survives! 
 
 Thou, too, s»il on, O Ship of State! 
 Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
 Humanity with all its fears, 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 187 
 
 380 With all the hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what Master laid thy keel, 
 What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
 
 385 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
 In what a forge and what a heat 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 
 
 390 'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
 And not a rent made by the gale ! 
 In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 
 
 395 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
 Are all with thee, — are all with thee! 
 
 393. The reference is to the treacherous display, by wreckers, 
 of lights upon a dangerous coast, to attract vessels in a storm, 
 that they may be wrecked and become the spoil of the thieves. 
 
 398. The closing lines gather into strong verses, like a choral, 
 ihe cumulative meaning of the poem, which builds upon the 
 material structure of the ship, the fancy of the bridal of sea and 
 ship, the domestic life of man and the national life. 
 
 Mr. Noah Brooks, in his paper on Lincoln's Imagination 
 [Scribner's Monthly, August, 1879), mentions that he found the 
 President one day attracted by these closing stanzas, which 
 were quoted in a political speech: " Knowing the whole poem," 
 he adds, "as one of my early exercises in recitation, I began, at 
 tos request, with the description of the launch of the ship, and 
 'epeated it to the end. As he listened to the last lines [395-398], 
 •lis eyes filled with tears, and his cheeks were wet. He did not 
 «peak for some minutes, but finally said, with simplicity : ' It 
 is a wonderful gift to be able to stir men like that.' " 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, of Quaker birth 
 in Puritan surroundings, was born at the home- 
 stead near Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 
 1807. Until his eighteenth year he lived at home, 
 working upon the farm and in the little shoemak- 
 er's shop which nearly every farm then had as a 
 resource in the otherwise idle hours of winter. The 
 manual, homely labor upon which he was employed 
 was in part the foundation of that deep interest 
 which the poet never has ceased to take in the toil 
 and plain fortunes of the people. Throughout his 
 poetry runs this golden thread of sympathy with 
 honorable labor and enforced poverty, and many 
 poems are directly inspired by it. While at work 
 with his father he sent poems to the Haverhill 
 Gazette, and that he was not in subjection to his 
 work is very evident by the fact that he trans- 
 lated it and similar occupations into So?igs of La- 
 bor. He had two years academic training, and in 
 1829 became editor in Boston of the American 
 Manufacturer, a paper published in the interest of 
 ihe tariff. In 1831 he published his Legends oj 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 189 
 
 New England, prose sketches in a department of 
 literature which has always had strong claims upon 
 his interest. No American writer, unless Irving 
 be excepted, has done so much to throw a grace- 
 ful veil of poetry and legend over the country of 
 his daily life. • Essex County in Massachusetts, 
 and the beaches lying between Newburyport and 
 Portsmouth, blossom with flowers of Whittier's 
 planting* He has made rare use of the homely 
 stories which he had heard in his childhood, an£ 
 learned afterward from familiar intercourse with 
 country people, and he has himself used invention 
 delicately and in harmony with the spirit of the 
 New England coast. Although of a body of men 
 who in earlier days had been persecuted by the 
 Puritans of New England, his generous mind has 
 not failed to detect all the good that was in the 
 stern creed and life of the persecutors, and to bring 
 it forward into the light of his poetry. 
 
 In 1836 he published Mogg Meg one, a poem 
 which stands first in the collected edition of his 
 poems, and was admitted there with some reluc- 
 tance, apparently, by the author. In that and the 
 Bridal of Pennacook he draws his material from 
 the relation held between the Indians and the set- 
 tlers. His sympathy was always with the perse- 
 toted and oppressed, and while historically he 
 found an object of pity and self-reproach in the 
 Indian, his profoundest compassion and most stir- 
 ring indignation were called out by African slavery. 
 From the earliest he was upon the side of the ab- 
 
190 WHITTIER. 
 
 olition party. Year after year poems fell from his 
 pen in which with all the eloquence of his nature 
 he sought to enlist his countrymen upon the side 
 of emancipation and freedom. It is not too much 
 to say that in the slow development of public sen- 
 timent Whit tier's steady song was one of the most 
 powerful advocates that the slave had, all the more 
 powerful that it was free from malignity or unjust 
 accusation. 
 
 Whittier's poems have been issued in a number 
 of small volumes, and collected into single larger 
 volumes. Besides those already indicated, there 
 are a number which owe their origin to his tender 
 regard for domestic life and the simple experience 
 of the men and women about him. Of these Snow- 
 Bound is the most memorable. Then his fondness 
 for a story has led him to use the ballad form in 
 many cases, and Mabel Martin is one of a number, 
 in which the narrative is blended with a fine and 
 strong charity. The catholic mind of this writer 
 and his instinct for discovering the pure moral in 
 human action are disclosed by a number of poems, 
 ilrawn from a wide range of historical fact, deal- 
 ing with a great variety of religious faiths and cir- 
 cumstances of life, but always pointing to some 
 sweet and strong truth of the divine life/ Of such 
 are The Brother of Mercy, The Gift of Tritemius, 
 The Two Rabbis, and others. Whittier's Prose 
 Works are comprised in two volumes, and consist 
 mainly of his contributions to journals and of 
 Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal, a fictitious 
 diary of a visitor to New England in 1678. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 A WINTER IDYL. 
 
 "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits 
 which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine lighc 
 of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire : and as the Celestial 
 Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the 
 lame." — Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I. ch. v 
 
 " Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
 Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
 Hides. hills and woods, the river and the heaven, 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
 Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 
 
 Emerson, The Snow- Storm 
 
 The sun that brief December day 
 Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
 And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 5 Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
 Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
 A portent seeming less than threat, 
 It sank from sight before it set. 
 A chill no coat, however stout, 
 
 io Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 
 A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 
 That checked, mid- vein, the circling race 
 Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 
 The coming of the snow-storm told. 
 
 1 5 The wind blew east ; we heard the roar 
 
192 WHITTIER. 
 
 Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 
 
 And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
 
 Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 
 
 Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 
 
 20 Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
 Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
 Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows: 
 Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
 And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
 
 25 Impatient down the stanchion rows 
 The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 
 While, peering from his early perch 
 Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
 The cock his crested helmet bent 
 
 30 And down his querulous challenge sent. 
 Unwarmed by any sunset light 
 The gray day darkened into night, 
 A night made hoary with the swarm, 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
 
 35 As zigzag wavering to and fro 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 And ere the early bedtime came 
 The white drift piled the window-frame, 
 \ And through the glass the clothes-line posta 
 
 40 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on: 
 The morning broke without a sun ; 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 45 In starry flake, and pellicle 
 All day the hoary meteor fell; 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 193 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 50 Around the glistening wonder bent 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament, 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, — 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 55 Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn -crib stood, 
 
 Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
 60 The bridle-post an old man sat 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 65 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 
 
 A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
 Our father wasted: " Boys, a path! M 
 Well pleased, (for when did farmer, boy 
 Count such a summons less than joy?) 
 70 Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 
 
 With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, 
 To guard our necks and ears from snow, 
 We cut the solid whiteness through. 
 
 65. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Italy, which inclines from 
 the perpendicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a cam- 
 panile, or bell-tower, built of white marble, very beautiful, but 
 bo famous for its singular deflection from perpendicularity as to 
 be known almost wholly as a curiosity. Opinions differ as to 
 he leaning being the result of accident or design, but the bet- 
 ter judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on 
 which it is built. The Cathedral to which it belongs has suf- 
 fered so much from a similar cause that there is not a vertical 
 Mne in it. 
 
 13 
 
194 WHITT1ER. 
 
 And, where the drift was deepest, made 
 
 75 A tunnel walled and overlaid 
 
 With dazzling crystal : we had read 
 Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, 
 And to our own his name we gave, 
 With many a wish" the luck were ours 
 
 80 To test his lamp's supernal powers. 
 We reached the barn with merry din, 
 And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
 The old horse thrust his long head out, 
 And grave with wonder gazed about ; 
 
 85 The cock his lusty greeting said, 
 And forth his speckled harem led; 
 The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 
 And mild reproach of hunger looked; 
 The horned patriarch of the sheep, 
 
 90 Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, 
 Shook his sage head with gesture mute, 
 And emphasized with stamp of foot. 
 
 All day the gusty north -wind bore 
 The loosening drift its breath before; 
 95 Low circling round its southern zone, 
 
 The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
 No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
 To the savage air, no social smoke 
 Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
 
 100 A solitude made more intense 
 By dreary- voiced elements, 
 The shrieking of the mindless wind, 
 The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
 And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
 
 105 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 
 
 90. Amun, or Amnion, was an Egyptian being, representing 
 %u attribute of Deity under the form of a ram. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 195 
 
 Beyond the circle of our hearth 
 
 No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
 
 Unbound the spell, and testified 
 
 Of human life and thought outside. 
 no We minded that the sharpest ear 
 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 
 The music cf whose liquid lip 
 
 Had been to us companionship, 
 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 115 To have an almost human tone. 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 
 120 We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
 Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 And on its top the stout back-stick; 
 The knotty forestick laid apart, 
 
 125 And filled between with curious art 
 
 The ragged brush; then, hovering near, 
 We watched the first red blaze appear, 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
 
 130 Until the old, rude-furnished room 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
 
 135 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
 The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed; 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
196 WRIT TIER. 
 
 140 Whispered the old rhyme: " Under the tree, 
 Whenjire outdoors burns merrily, 
 There the witches are making tea." 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full; the hill-range stood 
 
 145 Transfigured in the silver flood, 
 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 Took shadow, or the sombre green 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 
 150 Against the whiteness at their back. 
 "For such a world and such a night 
 Most fitting that unwarming light, 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
 155 Shut in from all the world without, 
 We sat the clean- winged hearth about, 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 In battle rage at pane and door, 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 
 160 The frost-line back with tropic heat; 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed, 
 
 165 The house-dog on his paws outspread 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
 And, for the winter fireside meet, 
 
 170 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
 The mug of cider simmered slow, 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 197 
 
 And,* close at hand,, the basket stood 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 1 75 What matter how the night behaved ? 
 
 What matter how the north-wind raved? 
 
 Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
 
 Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 
 
 O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 
 1 80 As was my sire's that winter day, 
 
 How strange it seems, with so much gone 
 
 Of life and love, to still live on! 
 
 Ah, brother! only I and thou 
 
 Are left of all that circle now, — 
 185 The dear home faces whereupon 
 
 That fitful firelight paled and shone. 
 
 Henceforward, listen as we will, 
 
 The voices of that hearth are still ; 
 
 Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
 190 Those lighted faces smile no more. 
 
 We tread the paths their feet have worn, 
 We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
 We hear, like them, the hum of bees 
 
 And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
 195 We turn the pages that they read, 
 
 Their written words we linger o'er, 
 
 But in the sun they cast no shade, 
 
 No voice is heard, no sign is made, 
 No step is on the conscious floor! 
 200 Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, 
 
 (Since He who knows our need is just,) 
 
 That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
 
 Alas for him who never sees 
 
 The stars shine through his cypress-trees! 
 205 Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, 
 
 Nor looks to see the breaking day 
 
198 • WHITTIER. 
 
 Across the mournful .marbles play ! * 
 Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, 
 
 The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
 210 That Life is ever lord of Death, 
 
 And Love can never lose its own! 
 
 We sped the time with stories old, 
 Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, 
 Or stammered from our school-book lore 
 
 215 " The chief of Gambia's golden shore.' ' 
 How often since, when all the land 
 Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand, 
 As if a trumpet called, I 've heard 
 Dame Mercy Warren's rousing word: 
 
 220 " Does not the voice of reason cry, 
 
 Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
 From the red scourge of bondage fly, 
 
 Nor deign to live a burdened slave ! '" 
 Our father rode again his ride 
 
 225 On Memphremagog's wooded side; 
 Sat down again to moose and samp 
 In trapper's hut and Indian camp; 
 Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 
 Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; 
 
 230 Again for him the moonlight shone 
 On Norman cap and bodiced zone; 
 Again he heard the violin play 
 Which led the village dance away, 
 And mingled in its merry whirl 
 
 235 The grandam and the laughing girl. 
 Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
 
 219. Mrs. Mercy Warren was the wife of James Warren, a 
 prominent patriot at the beginning of the Revolution. Her 
 poetry was read in an age that had in America little to read un« 
 ier that name; her society was sought by the best men. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 199 
 
 Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 
 
 Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; 
 Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
 240 Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 
 The low green prairies of the sea. 
 We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 
 And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 
 The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; 
 245 The chowder on the sand-beach made, 
 Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
 With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
 We heard the tales of witchcraft old, 
 And dream and sign and marvel told 
 250 To sleepy listeners as they lay 
 Stretched idly on the salted hay, 
 Adrift along the winding shores, 
 When favoring breezes deigned to blow 
 The square sail of the gundalow 
 255 And idle lay the useless oars. 
 
 11'/ I 
 
 Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
 
 Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 At midnight on Cochecho town, 
 260 And how her own great-uncle bore 
 His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
 Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
 So rich and picturesque and free, 
 (The common unrhymed poetry 
 265 Of simple life and country ways,) 
 The story of her early days, — 
 She made us welcome to her home; 
 Old hearths grew wide to give us room; 
 We stole with her a frightened look 
 259. Dover in New Hampshire. 
 
200 WHITTIER. 
 
 270 At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 
 The fame whereof went far and wide 
 Through all the simple country side; 
 We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
 The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
 
 275 The loon's weird laughter far away ; 
 We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
 What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 
 What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 
 280 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 
 
 The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, 
 And heard the wild geese calling loud, 
 Beneath the gray November cloud. 
 Then, haply, with a look more grave, 
 
 285 And soberer tone, some tale she gave 
 From painful Sewel's ancient tome, 
 Beloved in every Quaker home, 
 Of faith fire- winged by martyrdom, 
 Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — 
 
 290 Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint! — 
 
 286. William Sewel was the historian of the Quakers. Charles 
 Lamb seemed to have as good an opinion of the book as Whittier. 
 In his essay A Quakers' Meeting in Essays of Elia, he says : 
 11 Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend 
 to you, above all church-narratives, to read Sewel's ' History 
 of the Quakers.' .... It is far more edifying and affecting 
 than anything you will read of Wesley or his colleagues." 
 
 289. Thomas Chalkley was an Englishman of Quaker parent- 
 age, born in 1675, who travelled extensively as a preacher, and 
 finally made his home in Philadelphia. He died in 1749; his 
 Journal was first published in 1747. His own narrative of the 
 incident which the poet relates is as follows: "To stop their 
 murmuring, I told them they should not need to cast lots, which 
 was usual in such cases, which of us should die first, for I 
 would freely offer up my life to do them good. One said, ■ God 
 Dless you! I will not eat any of you.' Another said 'He would 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 201 
 
 Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 
 
 And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 
 
 And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 
 
 His portly presence mad for food, 
 295 With dark hints muttered under breath 
 
 Of casting lots for life or death, 
 
 Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, 
 
 To be himself the sacrifice. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if to save 
 300 The good man from his living grave, 
 
 A ripple on the water grew, 
 
 A school of porpoise flashed in view. 
 
 " Take, eat," he said, u a.id be content ; 
 
 These fishes in my stead are sent 
 305 By Him who gave the tangled ram 
 
 To spare the child of Abraham." 
 
 Our uncle, innocent of books, 
 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 
 
 The ancient teachers never dumb 
 
 die before he would eat any of me;' and so said several. I 
 can truly say, on that occasion, at that time, my life was not 
 dear to me, and that I was serious and ingenuous in my propo- 
 sition: and as I was leaning over the side of the vessel, 
 thoughtfully considering my proposal to the company, and look- 
 ing in my mind to Him that made me, a very large dolphin 
 came up towards the top or surface of the water, and looked me 
 in the face; and I called the people to put a hook into the sea, 
 and take him, for here is one come to redeem me (I said to 
 them). And they put a hook into the sea, and the fish read* 
 ily took it, and they caught him. He was longer than myself. 
 I think he was about six feet long, and the largest that ever 
 I saw. This plainly showed us that we ought not to distrust 
 the providence of the Almighty. The people were quieted by 
 this act of Providence, and murmured no more. We caught 
 enough to eat plentifully of, till we got into the capes of Dela- 
 
202 WI1ITT1ER. 
 
 310 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 
 
 Jn moons and tides and weather wise, 
 He read the clouds as prophecies, 
 And foul or fair could well divine, 
 By many an occult hint and sign, 
 
 315 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries; 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 
 
 320 Like Apollonius of old, 
 
 Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 
 Or Hermes, who interpreted 
 What the sage cranes of Nil us said; 
 A simple, guileless, childlike man, 
 
 325 Content to live where life began ; 
 Strong only on his native grounds, 
 The little world of sights and sounds 
 Whose girdle was the parish bounds, 
 Whereof his fondly partial pride 
 
 330 The common features magnified, 
 As Surrey hills to mountains grew 
 In White of Selborne's loving view, — 
 
 310. The measure requires the accent lyceum, but in stricter 
 use the accent is lyce'um. 
 
 320. A philosopher born in the first century of the Christian 
 era, of whom many strange stories were told, especially regard- 
 ing his converse with birds and animals. 
 
 322. Hermes Trismegistus, a celebrated Egyptian priest and 
 philosopher, to whom was attributed the revival of geometry, 
 arithmetic, and art among the Egyptians. He was little later 
 than Apollonius. 
 
 332. Gilbert White, of Selborne, England, was a clergyman 
 who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, a minute, affection- 
 ate, and charming description of what could be seen as it were 
 trom his own doorstep. The accuracy of his observation and 
 the delightf ulness of his manner have kept the book a classic. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 203 
 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
 335 The feats on pond and river done, 
 
 The prodigies of rod and gun; 
 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold, 
 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, » 
 340 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 
 
 The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 
 
 Went fishing down the river-brink. 
 
 In fields with bean or clover gay, 
 
 The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 
 345 Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 
 
 The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 
 
 And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 
 
 And from the shagbark overhead 
 
 The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 
 
 350 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
 And voice in dreams I see and hear, — 
 The sweetest woman ever Fate 
 Perverse denied a household mate, 
 Who, lonely, homeless, not the less 
 
 355 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
 And welcome wheresoe'er she went, 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
 And womanly atmosphere of home, — 
 
 360 Called up her girlhood memories, 
 The huskings and the apple-bees, 
 The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, 
 Weaving through all the poor details 
 And homespun warp of circumstance 
 
 365 A golden woof-thread of romance. 
 For well she kept her genial mood 
 
204 WHITTIER. 
 
 And simple faith of maidenhood; 
 Before her still a cloud-land lay, 
 The mirage loomed across her way ; 
 
 370 The morning dew, that dried so soon 
 With others, glistened at her noon ; 
 Through years of toil and soil and care, 
 From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 
 All unprofaned she held apart 
 
 375 The virgin fancies of the heart. 
 Be shame to him of woman born 
 Who had for such but thought of scorn. 
 
 There, too, our elder sister plied 
 Her evening task the stand beside; 
 
 380 A full, rich nature, free to trust, 
 Truthful and almost sternly just, 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 Keeping with many a light disguise 
 
 385 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 
 O heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
 That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest, 
 Rest from all bitter thoughts and things! 
 How many a poor one's blessing went 
 
 390 With thee beneath the low green tent 
 Whose curtain never outward swings! 
 
 As one who held herself a part 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 395 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
 Now bathed within the fadeless green 
 
 898. Th' unfading green would be harsher but more correct 
 since the termination less is added to nouns and not to verbs. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 205 
 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 400 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 
 Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
 Or silver reach of river calms, 
 Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
 With me one little year ago : — 
 405 The chill weight of the winter snow 
 
 For months upon her grave has lain ; 
 And now, when summer south- winds blow 
 
 And brier and harebell bloom again, 
 I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
 410 I see the violet-sprinkled sod 
 
 Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
 Yet following me where'er I went 
 With dark eyes full of love's content. 
 4.15 The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills 
 The air with sweetness; all the hills 
 Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
 But still I wait with ear and eye 
 For something gone which should be nigh, 
 420 A loss in all familiar things, 
 
 In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
 And yet, dear heart! remembering thee. 
 
 Am I not richer than of old ? 
 Safe in thy immortality, 
 425 What change can reach the wealth I hold ? 
 What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
 Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
 And while in life's late afternoon, 
 
 Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
 430 I walk to meet the night that soon 
 Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
 I cannot feel that thou art far, 
 Since near at need the angels are ; 
 
206 WEITTIER. 
 
 And when the sunset gates unbar, 
 435 Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
 And, white against the evening star, 
 The welcome of thy beckoning hand? 
 
 Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
 The master of the district school 
 
 440 Held at the fire his favored place ; 
 Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 
 445 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 
 Born the wild Northern hills among, 
 From whence his yeoman father wrung 
 
 450 By patient toil subsistence scant, 
 Not competence and yet not want, 
 He early gained the power to pay 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way; 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 
 455 To peddle wares from town to town ; 
 Or through the long vacation's reach 
 In lonely lowland districts teach, 
 Where all the droll experience found 
 At stranger hearths in boarding round, 
 
 460 The moonlit skater's keen delight, 
 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
 The rustic party, with its rough 
 Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, 
 And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, 
 
 465 His winter task a pastime made. 
 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 He tuned his merry violin, 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 207 
 
 Or played the athlete in the barn, 
 
 Or held the good darned winding yarn, 
 470 Or mirth-provoking versions told 
 
 Of classic legends rare and old, 
 
 Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 
 
 Had all the commonplace of home, 
 
 And little seemed at best the odds 
 475 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods; 
 
 Where Pindus-born Araxes took 
 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 
 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 480 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
 But at his desk he had the look 
 And air of one who wisely schemed, 
 And hostage from the future took 
 In trained thought and lore of book. 
 
 485 Large-brained, clear-eyed, — of such as he 
 Shall Freedom's young apostles be, 
 Who, following in War's bloody trail, 
 Shall every lingering wrong assail; 
 All chains from limb and spirit strike, 
 
 490 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 The darkness and the ignorance, 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 
 
 495 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 The cruel lie of caste refute, 
 
 476. Pindus is the mountain chain which, running from north 
 io south, nearly bisects Greece. Five rivers take their rise from 
 the central peak, the Aous, the Arachthus, the Haliacmon, tha 
 P*neus, and the Achelous. 
 
208 WHITTIKR. 
 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 500 For blind routine, wise-handed skill ; 
 
 A school-house plant on every hill, 
 
 Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 
 
 The quick wires of intelligence ; 
 
 Till North and South together brought 
 505 Shall own the same electric thought, 
 
 In peace a common flag salute, 
 
 And, side by side in labor's free 
 
 And unresentful rivalry, 
 
 Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 
 
 510 Another guest that winter night 
 
 Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. 
 Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
 The honeyed music of her tongue 
 And words of meekness scarcely told 
 
 515 A nature passionate and bold, 
 
 Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, 
 
 Its milder features dwarfed beside 
 
 Her unbent will's majestic pride. 
 
 She sat among us, at the best, • 
 
 520 A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, 
 Rebuking with her Cultured phrase 
 Our homeliness of words and ways. 
 A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 
 
 Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the 
 lash, 
 
 525 Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash ; 
 And under low brows, black with night, 
 Rayed out at times a dangerous light ; 
 The sharp heat-lightnings of her face 
 Presaging ill to him whom Fate 
 
 530 Condemned to share her love or hate. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 209 
 
 A woman tropical, intense 
 
 In thought and act, in soul and sense, 
 
 She blended in a like degree 
 
 The vixen and the devotee, 
 535 Revealing with each freak or feint 
 The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 
 
 The raptures of Siena's Saint. 
 
 Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 
 
 Had facile power to form a fist; 
 540 The warm, dark languish of her eyes 
 
 Was never safe from wrath's surprise. 
 
 Brows saintly calm and lips devout 
 
 Knew every change of scowl and pout; 
 
 And the sweet voice had notes more high 
 545 And shrill for social battle-cry. 
 
 Since then what old cathedral town 
 
 Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, 
 
 What convent-gate has held its lock 
 
 Against the challenge of her knock! 
 550 Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, 
 
 Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, 
 
 Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 
 
 Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 
 
 Or startling on her desert throne 
 555 The crazy Queen of Lebanon 
 
 With claims fantastic as her own, 
 
 Her tireless feet have held their way ; 
 
 And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 
 
 536. See Shakspere's comedy of the Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 537. St. Catherine of Siena, who is represented as having 
 wonderful visions. She made a vow of silence for three } T ears. 
 
 555. An interesting account of Lady Hester Stanhope, an 
 English gentlewoman who led a singular life on Mount Leb- 
 anon in Syria, will be found in Kinglake's Eothen, chapter 
 viii. 
 
 14 
 
210 WHITTIER. 
 
 She watches under Eastern skies, 
 560 With hope each day renewed and fresh, 
 The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, 
 Whereof she dreams and prophesies! 
 
 Where'er her troubled path may be, 
 
 The Lord's sweet pity with her go! 
 565 The outward wayward life we see, 
 
 The hidden springs we may not know. 
 Nor is it given us to discern 
 
 What threads the fatal sisters spun, 
 
 Through what ancestral years has run 
 570 The sorrow with the woman born, 
 
 What forged her cruel chain of moods, 
 What set her feet in solitudes, 
 
 And held the love within her mute, 
 What mingled madness in the blood, 
 575 A lifelong discord and annoy, 
 
 Water of tears with oil of joy, 
 And hid within the folded bud 
 
 Perversities of flower and fruit. 
 It is not ours to separate 
 580 The tangled skein of will and fate, 
 
 To show what metes and bounds should stand 
 Upon the soul's debatable land, 
 
 562. This not un-f eared, half-welcome guest was Miss Harriet 
 Livermore, daughter of Judge Livermore of New Hampshire. 
 She was a woman of fine powers, but wayward, wild, and enthu- 
 siastic. She went on an independent mission to the Western 
 Indians, whom she, in common with some others, believed to be 
 remnants of the lost tribes of Israel. At the time of this narra- 
 tive she was about twenty-eight years old, but much of her life 
 afterward was spent in the Orient. She was at one time the 
 companion and friend of Lady Hester Stanhope, but finally quar- 
 reled with her about the use of the holy horses kept in the stable 
 in waiting for the Lord's ride to Jerusalem at the second advent. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 211 
 
 And between choice and Providence 
 Divide the circle of events ; 
 585 But He who knows our frame is just, 
 Merciful and compassionate, 
 And full of sweet assurances 
 And hope for all the language is, 
 That He remembereth we are dust I 
 
 590 At last the great logs, crumbling low, 
 Sent out a dull and duller glow, 
 The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
 Ticking its weary circuit through, 
 Pointed with mutely-warning sign 
 
 595 Its black hand to the hour of nine. 
 That sign the pleasant circle broke : 
 My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
 Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
 And laid it tenderly away, 
 
 600 Then roused himself to safely cover 
 The dull red brands with ashes over. 
 And while, with care, our mother laid 
 The work aside, her steps she stayed 
 One moment, seeking to express 
 
 605 Her grateful sense of happiness 
 
 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
 And love's contentment more than wealth, 
 With simple wishes (not the weak, 
 Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 
 
 610 But such as warm the generous heart, 
 O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) 
 That none might lack, that bitter night, 
 For bread and clothing, warmth and light. 
 
 Within our beds awhile we heard 
 615 The wind that round the gables roared, 
 
212 WHITTIER. 
 
 With now and then a ruder shock, 
 Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
 We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
 The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 
 
 620 And on us, through the unplastered wall, 
 Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall. 
 But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 
 When hearts are light and life is new; 
 Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 
 
 625 Till in the summer-land of dreams 
 
 They softened to the sound of streams, 
 Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
 And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 
 
 Next morn we wakened with the shout 
 630 Of merry voices high and clear ; 
 
 And saw the teamsters drawing near 
 
 To break the drifted highways out. 
 
 Down the long hillside treading slow 
 
 We saw the half -buried oxen go, 
 635 Shaking the snow from heads uptost, 
 
 Their straining nostrils white with frost. 
 
 Before our door the straggling train 
 
 Drew up, an added team to gain. 
 
 The elders threshed their hands a-cold, 
 640 Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 
 From lip to lip; the younger folks 
 
 Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, 
 
 Then toiled again the cavalcade 
 
 O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 
 645 And woodland paths that wound between 
 
 Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 
 
 From every barn a team afoot, 
 
 At every house a new recruit, 
 
 Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 213 
 
 650 Haply the watchful young men saw 
 Sweet doorway pictures of the curls 
 And curious eyes of merry girls, 
 Lifting their hands in mock defence 
 Against the snow-ball's compliments, 
 
 655 And reading in each missive tost 
 The charm with Eden never lost. 
 
 We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ; 
 
 And, following where the teamsters led, 
 The wise old Doctor went his round, 
 660 Just pausing at our door to say, 
 In the brief autocratic way 
 Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, 
 Was free to urge her claim on all, 
 
 That some poor neighbor sick abed 
 665 At night our mother's aid would need. 
 For, one in generous thought and deed, 
 
 What mattered in the sufferer's sight 
 
 The Quaker matron's inward light, 
 The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? 
 670 All hearts confess the saints elect 
 
 Who, twain in faith, in love agree, 
 And melt not in an acid sect 
 
 The Christian pearl of charity 1 
 
 So days went on : a week had passed 
 675 Since the great world was heard from last. 
 
 The Almanac we studied o'er, 
 
 Read and reread our little store 
 
 Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; 
 
 One harmless novel, mostly hid 
 680 From younger eyes, a book forbid, 
 
 659. The wise old Doctor was Dr. Weld of Haverhill, an able 
 man, who died at the age of ninety-six. 
 
214 WHIT TIER. 
 
 And poetry, (or good or bad, 
 
 A single book was all we had,) 
 
 Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
 A stranger to the heathen Nine, 
 685 Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, 
 
 The wars of David and the Jews. 
 
 At last the floundering carrier bore 
 
 The village paper to our door. 
 
 Lo! broadening outward as we read, 
 690 To warmer zones the horizon spread ; 
 
 In panoramic length unrolled 
 
 We saw the marvels that it told. 
 
 Before us passed the painted Creeks, 
 And daft McGregor on his raids 
 695 In Costa Rica's everglades. 
 
 And up Taygetus winding slow 
 
 Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 
 
 A Turk's head at each saddle-bow! 
 
 Welcome to us its week-old news, 
 700 Its corner for the rustic Muse, 
 
 683. Thomas Ellwood, one of the Society of Friends, a con- 
 temporary and friend of Milton, and the suggestor of Paradise 
 Regained, wrote an epic poem in five books, called Davideis, 
 the life of King David of Israel. He wrote the book, we are 
 told, for his own diversion, so it was not necessary that others 
 should be diverted by it. Ellwood's autobiography, a quaint 
 and delightful book, has recently been issued in Howells's series 
 vf Choice Autobiography. 
 
 693. Referring to the removal of the Creek Indians from Geor- 
 gia to beyond the Mississippi. 
 
 694. In 1822 Sir Gregor McGregor, a Scotchman, began an 
 ineffectual attempt to establish a colony in Costa Rica. 
 
 697. Taygetus is a mountain on the Gulf of Messenia in 
 Greece, and near by is the district of Maina, noted for its rob- 
 bers and pirates. It was from these mountaineers that Ypsi 
 lanti, a Greek patriot, drew his cavalry in the struggle with Tur- 
 key, which resulted in the independence of Greece. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 215 
 
 Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, 
 
 Its record, mingling in a breath 
 
 The wedding knell and dirge of death; 
 
 Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 
 705 The latest culprit sent to jail; 
 
 Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, 
 
 Its vendue sales and goods at cost, 
 And traffic calling loud for gain. 
 
 We felt the stir of hall and street, 
 710 The pulse of life that round us beat; 
 
 The chill embargo of the snow 
 
 Was melted in the genial glow; 
 
 Wide swung again our ice-locked door, 
 
 And all the world was ours once more ! 
 
 715 Clasp, Angel of the backward look 
 And folded wings of ashen gray 
 And voice of echoes far away, 
 The brazen covers of thy book ; 
 The weird palimpsest old and vast, 
 720 Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; 
 Where, closely mingling, pale and glow 
 The characters of joy and woe; 
 The monographs of outlived years, 
 Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 
 725 Green hills of life that slope to death, 
 And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
 Shade off to mournful cypresses 
 
 With the white amaranths underneath. 
 Even while I look, I can but heed 
 730 The restless sands' incessant fall, 
 Importunate hours that hours succeed, 
 Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
 And duty keeping pace with all. 
 
216 WHITTIER. 
 
 Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; 
 735 I hear again the voice that bids 
 
 The dreamer leave his dream midway 
 For larger hopes and graver fears: 
 Life greatens in these later years, 
 The century's aloe flowers to-day! 
 
 740 Yet, haply, in some lull of life, 
 
 Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, 
 The wordling's eyes shall gather dew, 
 
 Dreaming in throngful city ways 
 Of winter joys his boyhood knew; 
 
 745 And dear and early friends — the few 
 
 Who yet remain — shall pause to view 
 
 These Flemish pictures of old days; 
 
 Sit with me by the homestead hearth, 
 
 And stretch the hands of memory forth 
 
 750 To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! 
 And thanks untraced to lips unknown 
 Shall greet me like the odors blown 
 From unseen meadows newly mown, 
 Or lilies floating in some pond, 
 
 755 Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond; 
 The traveller owns the grateful sense 
 Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, 
 And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
 The benediction of the air. 
 
 741. The name is drawn from a historic compact in 1040. 
 wnen the Church forbade the barons to make any attack on each 
 Dther between sunset on Wednesday and sunrise on the follow- 
 ing Monday, or upon any ecclesiastical fast or feast day. It 
 also provided that no man was to molest a laborer working in 
 the fields, or to lay hands on any implement of husbandry, on 
 pain of excommunication. 
 
 747. The Flemish school of painting was chiefly occupied 
 with homelv interiors. 
 

 AMONG THE HILLS. 217 
 
 II. 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 PKELUDE. 
 
 Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold 
 That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, 
 Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, 
 And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers 
 5 Hang motionless upon their upright staves. 
 The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, 
 Wing-weary with its long flight from the south, 
 Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf 
 With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, 
 
 io Confesses it. The locust by the wall 
 
 Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. 
 
 A single hay-cart down the dusty road 
 
 Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep 
 
 On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, 
 
 15 Huddled along the stone wall's shady side, 
 The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still 
 Defied the dog-star. Through the open door 
 A drowsy smell of flowers — gray heliotrope, 
 And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette — 
 
 20 Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends 
 To the pervading symphony of peace. 
 
 No time is this for hands long over-worn 
 
 To task their strength: and (unto Him be praise 
 
 Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain 
 
 2. The Incas were the kings of the ancient Peruvians. At 
 Yucay, their favorite residence, the gardens, according to Pres- 
 cott, contained "forms of vegetable life skillfully imitated in 
 ^old and silver." See History of the Conquest of Pei'u. i. 130. 
 
218 WHITTIER. 
 
 25 Of years that did the work of centuries 
 
 Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once 
 
 more 
 Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters 
 Make glad their nooning underneath the elms 
 With tale and riddle and old snatch of song, 
 
 30 I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn 
 
 The leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming 
 
 o'er 
 Old summer pictures of the quiet hills, 
 And human life, as quiet, at their feet. 
 
 And yet not idly all. A farmer's son, 
 
 35 Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling 
 All their fine possibilities, how rich 
 And restful even poverty and toil 
 Become when beauty, harmony, and love 
 Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat 
 
 40 At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man 
 Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock 
 The symbol of a Christian chivalry 
 Tender and just and generous to her 
 Who clothes with grace all duty; still, I know 
 
 45 Too well the picture has another side. 
 How wearily the grind of toil goes on 
 Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear 
 And heart are starved amidst the plenitude 
 Of nature, and how hard and colorless 
 
 i)j Is life without an atmosphere. I look 
 Across the lapse of half a century, 
 And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower 
 Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds, 
 Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place 
 
 26. The volume in which this poem stands first, and to which 
 It gives the name, was published in the fall of 1868. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 219 
 
 55 Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose 
 
 And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed 
 Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine 
 To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves 
 Across the curtainless windows from whose panes 
 
 60 Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness ; 
 Within, the cluttered kitchen floor, unwashed 
 (Broom-clean I think they called it) ; the best 
 
 room 
 Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air 
 In hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless 
 
 65 Save the inevitable sampler hung 
 
 Over the fireplace, or a mourning piece, 
 A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath 
 Impossible willows ; the wide-throated hearth 
 Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing 
 
 70 The 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 own 
 
 *j$ Monotonous 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 bobolink 
 
 80 Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves; 
 For them in vain October's holocaust 
 Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, 
 The sacramental mystery of the woods. 
 Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, 
 
 85 But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, 
 Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls 
 And winter pork with the least possible outlay 
 Of salt and sanctity; in daily life 
 
220 WHITTIER. 
 
 Showing as little actual comprehension 
 90 Of Christian charity and love and duty, 
 As if the Sermon on the Mount had been 
 Outdated like a last year's almanac : 
 Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, 
 And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, 
 95 The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, 
 The sun and air his sole inheritance, 
 Laughed at poverty that paid its taxes, 
 And hugged his rags in self-complacency! 
 
 Not such should be the homesteads of a land 
 ioc Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell 
 As king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state, 
 With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make 
 His hour of leisure richer than a life 
 Of fourscore to the barons of old time, 
 105 Our yeoman should be equal to his home 
 Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled, 
 A man to match his mountains, not to creep 
 Dwarfed and abased below them. I would fain 
 In this light way (of which I needs must own 
 no With 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 feel 
 The beauty and the joy within their reach, — 
 Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes 
 
 110. The Anti- Jacobin was a periodical published in England 
 mj 1797-98, to ridicule democratic opinions, and in it Canning, 
 who afterward became premier of England, wrote many light 
 verses and jeux d' esprit, among them a humorous poem called 
 the Needy Knife- Grinder, in burlesque of a poem by Southey. 
 The knife-grinder is anxiously appealed to to tell his story of 
 rrong and injustice, but answers as here : — 
 
 " Story, God bless you ! I ve none to tell." 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 221 
 
 115 Of nature free to all. Haply in years 
 That wait to take the places of our own, 
 Heard where some breezy balcony looks down 
 On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon 
 Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, 
 
 r 20 In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet 
 Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine 
 May seem the burden of a prophecy, 
 Finding its late fulfilment in a change 
 Slow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood up 
 
 [25 Through 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 
 bring 
 
 130 All the old virtues, whatsoever things 
 Are pure and honest and of good repute, 
 But add thereto whatever bard has sung 
 Or seer has told of when in trance and dream 
 They saw the Happy Isles of prophecy ! 
 
 135 Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth divide 
 
 Between the right and wrong; but give the heart 
 
 The freedom of its fair inheritance ; 
 
 Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so 
 
 long, 
 At Nature's table feast his ear and eye 
 
 140 With joy and wonder; let all harmonies 
 Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon 
 The princely guest, whether in soft attire 
 Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil, 
 And, lending life to the dead form of faith, 
 
 *45 Give human nature reverence for the sake 
 134. See note to 1. 337, p. 185. 
 
222 WHITT1ER. 
 
 Of One who bore it, making it divine 
 With the ineffable tenderness of God ; 
 Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, 
 The heirship of an unknown destiny, 
 
 [50 The unsolved mystery round about us, make 
 A man more precious than the gold of Ophir. 
 Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things 
 Should minister, as outward types and signs 
 Of the eternal beauty which fulfils 
 
 f 55 The one great purpose of creation, Love, 
 The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven ! 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 For weeks the clouds had raked the hills 
 
 And vexed the vales with raining, 
 And all the woods were sad with mist, 
 160 And all the brooks complaining. 
 
 At last, a sudden night-storm tore 
 
 The mountain veils asunder, 
 And swept the valleys clean before 
 
 The besom of the thunder. 
 
 165 Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang 
 Good morrow to the cotter; 
 And once again Chocorua's horn 
 Of shadow pierced the water. 
 
 165. Sandwich Notch, Chocorua Mountain, Ossipee Lake ann 
 Lhe Bea'camp River, are all striking features of the scenery in 
 Lhat part of New Hampshire which lies just at the entrance of 
 the White Mountain region. Many of Whittier's most graceful 
 poems are drawn from the suggestions of this country, where he 
 *ia9 been wont to spend his summer months of late, and a mount* 
 •tin near West Ossipee has received his name. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 223 
 
 Above his broad lake Ossipee, 
 170 Once more the sunshine wearing, 
 Stooped, tracing on that silver shield 
 His grim armorial bearing. 
 
 Clear drawn against the hard blue sky 
 The peaks had winter's keenness; 
 175 And, close on autumn's frost, the vales 
 Had more than June's fresh greenness. 
 
 Again the sodden forest floors 
 
 With golden lights were checkered, 
 Once more rejoicing leaves in wind 
 180 And sunshine danced and flickered. 
 
 It was as if the summer's late 
 
 Atoning for its sadness 
 Had borrowed every season's charm 
 
 To end its days in gladness. 
 
 185 I call to mind those banded vales 
 Of shadow and of shining, 
 Through which, my hostess at my side, 
 I drove in day's declining. 
 
 We held our sideling way above 
 190 The river's whitening shallows, 
 
 By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns 
 Swept through and through by swallows, — 
 
 By maple orchards, belts of pine 
 And larches climbing darkly 
 195 The mountain slopes, and, over all, 
 The great peaks rising starkly. 
 
224 WHITTIER. 
 
 You should have seen that long hill-range 
 
 With gaps of brightness riven, — 
 How through, each pass and hollow streamed 
 200 The purpling lights of heaven, — 
 
 Rivers of gold-mist flowing down 
 From far celestial fountains, — - 
 
 The great sun flaming through the rifts 
 Beyond the wall of mountains! 
 
 205 We paused at last where home-bound cows 
 Brought down the pasture's treasure, 
 And in the barn the rhythmic flails 
 Beat out a harvest measure. 
 
 We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, 
 210 The crow his tree-mates calling: 
 
 The shadows lengthening down the slopes 
 About our feet were falling, 
 
 And through them smote the level sun 
 In broken lines of splendor, 
 215 Touched the gray rocks and made the green 
 Of the shorn grass more tender. 
 
 The maples bending o'er the gate, 
 Their arch of leaves just tinted 
 With yellow warmth, the golden glow 
 220 Of coming autumn hinted. 
 
 Keen white between the farm-house showed, 
 And smiled on porch and trellis, 
 
 The fair democracy of flowers 
 That equals cot and palace. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 225 
 
 225 And weaving garlands for her dog, 
 'Twixt chidings and caresses, 
 A human flower of childhood shook 
 The sunshine from her tresses. 
 
 On either hand we saw the signs 
 230 Of fancy and of shrewdness, 
 
 Where taste had wound its arms of vines 
 Round thrift's uncomely rudeness. 
 
 The sun-brown farmer in his frock 
 Shook hands, and called to Mary: 
 235 Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, 
 White-aproned from her dairy. 
 
 Her air, her smile, her motions, told 
 
 Of womanly completeness; 
 A music as of household songs 
 240 Was in her voice of sweetness. 
 
 Not beautiful in curve and line, 
 But something more and better, 
 
 The secret charm eluding art, 
 Its spirit, not its letter ; — 
 
 245 An inborn grace that nothing lacked 
 
 Of culture or appliance, — 
 
 The warmth of genial courtesy, 
 
 The calm of self-reliance. 
 
 Before her queenly womanhood 
 250 How dared our hostess utter 
 The paltry errand of her need 
 To buy her fresh-churned butter? 
 15 
 
226 • WHITTIER. 
 
 She led the way with housewife pride, 
 Her goodly store disclosing, 
 255 Full tenderly the golden balls 
 
 With practised hands disposing. 
 
 Then, while along the western hills 
 We watched the changeful glory 
 Of sunset, on our homeward way, 
 260 I heard her simple story. 
 
 The early crickets sang ; the stream 
 
 Plashed through my friend's narration : 
 
 Her rustic patois of the hills 
 Lost in my free translation. 
 
 265 "More wise," she said, " than those who swarm 
 Our hills in middle summer, 
 She came, when June's first roses blow, 
 To greet the early comer. 
 
 11 From school and ball and rout she came, 
 270 The city's fair, pale daughter, 
 To drink the wine of mountain air 
 Beside the Bearcamp Water. 
 
 " Her step grew firmer on the hills 
 That watch our homesteads over; 
 275 On cheek and lip, from summer fields, 
 She caught the bloom of clover. 
 
 " For health comes sparkling in the streams 
 
 From cool Chocorua stealing: 
 There 's iron in our Northern winds ; 
 280 Our pines are trees of healing. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 227 
 
 " She sat beneath the broad-armed elms 
 
 That skirt the mowing-meadow, 
 And watched the gentle west-wind weave 
 
 The grass with shine and shadow. 
 
 285 " Beside her, from the summer heat 
 To share her grateful screening, 
 With forehead bared, the farmer stood, 
 Upon his pitchfork leaning. 
 
 " Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face 
 290 Had nothing mean or common, — 
 Strong, manly, true, the tenderness 
 And pride beloved of woman. 
 
 " She looked up, glowing with the health 
 The country air had brought her, 
 295 And, laughing, said: ' You lack a wife, 
 Your mother lacks a daughter. 
 
 " '.To mend your frock and bake your bread 
 
 You do not need a lady: 
 Be sure among these brown old homes 
 300 Is some one waiting ready, — 
 
 " ' Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand 
 
 And cheerful heart for treasure, 
 Who never played with ivory keys, 
 
 Or danced the polka's measure/ 
 
 305 " He bent his black brows to a frown, 
 He set his white teeth tightly. 
 * 'Tis well,' he said, ' for one like you 
 To choose for me so lightly. 
 
228 WHITTIER. 
 
 " ' You think, because my life is rude 
 310 I take no note of sweetness: 
 I tell you love has naught to do 
 With meetness or unmeetness. 
 
 " ' Itself its best excuse, it asks 
 No leave of pride or fashion 
 315 When silken zone or homespun frock 
 It stirs with throbs of passion. 
 
 M ' You think me deaf and blind: you bring 
 
 Your winning graces hither 
 As free as if from cradle-time 
 320 We two had played together. 
 
 " i You tempt me with your laughing eyes, 
 Your cheek of sundown's blushes, 
 
 A motion as of waving grain, 
 A music as of thrushes. 
 
 325 " * The plaything of your summer sport, 
 The spells you weave around me 
 You cannot at your will undo, 
 Nor leave me as you found me. 
 
 * ' l You go as lightly as you came, 
 330 Your life is well without me ; 
 
 What care you that these hills will close 
 Like prison-walls about me? 
 
 14 'No mood is mine to seek a wife, 
 Or daughter for my mother: 
 335 Who loves you loses in that love 
 All power to love another! 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 229 
 
 "• f I dare your pity or your scorn, 
 
 With pride your own exceeding ; 
 I fling my heart into your lap 
 340 Without a word of pleading. ■ 
 
 " She looked up in his face of pain 
 
 So archly, yet so tender: 
 * And if I lend you mine,' she said, 
 
 ' Will you forgive the lender ? 
 
 345 " * Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; 
 And see you not, my farmer, 
 How weak and fond a woman waits 
 Behind this silken armor ? 
 
 " * I love you: on that love alone, 
 350 And not my worth, presuming, 
 Will you not trust for summer fruit 
 The tree in May-day blooming? ' 
 
 " Alone the hangbird overhead, 
 His hair-swung cradle straining, 
 355 Looked down to see love's miracle, — 
 The giving that is gaining. 
 
 14 And so the farmer found a wife, 
 
 His mother found a daughter: 
 There looks no happier home than hers 
 360 On pleasant Bearcamp Water. 
 
 " Flowers spring to blossom where she walks 
 
 The careful ways of duty; 
 Our hard, stiff lines of life with her 
 
 Are flowing curves of beauty. 
 
230 WHIT TIER. 
 
 365 " Our homes are cheerier for her sake, 
 Our door-yards brighter blooming, 
 And all about the social air 
 Is sweeter for her coming. 
 
 11 Unspoken homilies of peace 
 370 Her daily life is preaching; 
 The still refreshment of the dew- 
 Is her unconscious teaching. 
 
 " And never tenderer hand than hers 
 Unknits the brow of ailing; 
 375 Her garments to the sick man's ear 
 Have music in their trailing. 
 
 11 And when, in pleasant harvest moons, 
 
 " The youthful buskers gather, 
 Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways 
 380 Defy the winter weather, — 
 
 " In sugar-camps, when south and warm 
 The winds of March are blowing, 
 
 And sweetly from its thawing veins 
 The maple's blood is flowing, — 
 
 385 "In summer, where some lilied pond 
 Its virgin zone is bearing, 
 Or where the ruddy autumn fire 
 Lights up the apple-paring, — 
 
 " The coarseness of a ruder time 
 390 Her finer mirth displaces, 
 A subtler sense of pleasure fills 
 Each rustic sport she graces. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 231 
 
 " Her presence lends its warmth and health 
 To all who come before it. 
 395 If woman lost us Eden, such 
 As she alone restore it. 
 
 " For larger life and wiser aims 
 
 The farmer is her debtor ; 
 Who holds to his another's heart 
 400 Must needs be worse or better. 
 
 " Through her his civic service shows 
 
 A purer-toned ambition; 
 No double consciousness divides 
 
 The man and politician. 
 
 405 " In party's doubtful ways he trusts 
 Her instincts to determine; 
 At the loud polls, the thought of her 
 Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. 
 
 " He owns her logic of the heart, 
 410 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; 
 415 And love thus deepened to respect 
 Is proof against all changes. 
 
 " And if she walks at ease in ways 
 
 His feet are slow to travel, 
 And if she reads with cultured eyes 
 420 What his may scarce unravel, 
 
232 WH1TTLER. 
 
 " Still clearer, for her keener sight 
 
 Of beauty and of wonder, 
 He learns the meaning of the hills 
 
 He dwelt from childhood under. 
 
 425 " And higher, warmed with summer lights, 
 Or winter-crowned and hoary, 
 The ridged horizon lifts for him 
 Its inner veils of glory. 
 
 11 He has his own free, bookless lore, 
 430 The lessons nature taught him, 
 
 The wisdom which the woods and hills 
 And toiling men have brought him: 
 
 " The steady force of will whereby 
 Her flexile grace seems sweeter; 
 435 The sturdy counterpoise which makes 
 Her woman's life completer: 
 
 " A latent fire of soul which lacks 
 
 No breath of love to fan it ; 
 And wit, that, like his native brooks, 
 440 Plays over solid granite. 
 
 " How dwarfed against his manliness 
 She sees the poor pretension, 
 
 The wants, the aims, the follies, born 
 Of fashion and convention ! 
 
 445 " How life behind its accidents 
 
 Stands strong and self-sustaining, 
 The human fact transcending ai! 
 The losing and the gaining. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 233 
 
 " And so, in grateful interchange 
 450 Of teacher and of hearer, 
 
 Their lives their true distinctness keep 
 While daily drawing nearer. 
 
 " And if the husband or the wife 
 In home's strong light discovers 
 455 Such slight defaults as failed to meet 
 The blinded eyes of lovers, 
 
 " Why need we care to ask ? — who dreams 
 
 Without their thorns of roses, 
 
 Or wonders that the truest steel 
 
 460 The readiest spark discloses? 
 
 " For still in mutual sufferance lies 
 
 The secret of true living : 
 Love scarce is love that never knows 
 
 The sweetness of forgiving. 
 
 465 " We send the Squire to General Court, 
 He takes his young wife thither; 
 No prouder man election day 
 
 Rides through the sweet June weather. 
 
 11 He sees with eyes of manly trust 
 470 All hearts to her inclining; 
 
 Not less for him his household light 
 That others share its shining." 
 
 Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew 
 Before me, warmer tinted 
 475 And outlined with a tenderer grace, 
 The picture that she hinted. 
 
234 WHITT1ER. 
 
 The sunset smouldered as we drove 
 
 Beneath the deep hill-shadows. 
 Below us wreaths of white fog walked 
 480 Like ghosts the haunted meadows. 
 
 Sounding the summer night, the stars 
 Dropped down their golden plummets; 
 
 The pale arc of the Northern lights 
 Rose o'er the mountain summits, — 
 
 485 Until, at last, beneath its bridge, 
 
 We heard the Beareamp flowing, 
 And saw across the mapled lawn 
 
 The welcome home-lights glowing; — 
 
 And, musing on the tale I heard, 
 490 'Twere well, thought I, if often 
 To rugged farm-life came the gift 
 To harmonize and soften ; — 
 
 If more and more we found the troth 
 Of fact and fancy plighted, 
 495 And culture's charm and labor's strength 
 In rural homes united, — 
 
 The simple life, the homely hearth, 
 
 With beauty's sphere surrounding, 
 And blessing toil where toil abounds 
 500 With graces more abounding. 
 
m. 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 [This poem was published in 1875, but it had 
 already appeared in an earlier version in 1860 under 
 the title of The Witch's Daughter, in Home Ballads 
 and other Poems. Mabel Martin is in the same 
 measure as The Witch's Daughter, and many of 
 the verses are the same, but the poet has taken the 
 first draft as a sketch, filled it out, adding verses 
 here and there, altering lines and making an intro- 
 duction, so that the new version is a third longer 
 than the old. The reader will find it interesting to 
 compare the two poems. The scene is laid on the 
 Merrimack, as Deer Island and Hawkswood near 
 Newburyport intimate. A fruitful comparison 
 might be drawn between the treatment of such sub- 
 jects by Whittier and by Hawthorne.] 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE RIVER VALLEY. 
 
 Across the level tableland, 
 A grassy, rarely trodden way, 
 With thinnest skirt of birchen spray 
 
 And stunted growth of cedar, leads 
 5 To where you see the dull plain fall 
 Sheer off, steep-slanted, ploughed by all 
 
236 WHITTIER. 
 
 The seasons' rainfalls. On its brink 
 The over-leaning harebells swing ; 
 With roots half bare the pine-trees cling ; 
 
 10 And, through the shadow looking west, 
 You see the wavering river flow 
 Along a vale, that far below 
 
 Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills, 
 And glimmering water-line between, 
 15 Broad fields of corn and meadows green, 
 
 And fruit-bent orchards grouped around 
 The low brown roofs and painted eaves, 
 And chimney-tops half hid in leaves. 
 
 No warmer valley hides behind 
 20 Yon wind-scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak, 
 No fairer river comes to seek 
 
 The wave-sung welcome of the sea, 
 Or mark the northmost border line 
 Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. 
 
 25 Here, ground-fast in their native fields, 
 Untempted by the city's gain, 
 The quiet farmer folk remain 
 
 Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, 
 And keep their fathers' gentle ways 
 30 And simple speech of Bible days; 
 
 In whose neat homesteads woman holds 
 With modest ease her equal place, 
 And wears upon her tranquil face 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 237 
 
 The look of one who, merging not 
 35 Her self -hood in another's will, 
 Is love's and duty's handmaid still. 
 
 Pass with me down the path that winds 
 Through birches to the open land, 
 Where, close upon the river strand 
 
 40 You mark a cellar, vine-o'errun, 
 
 Above whose wall of loosened stones 
 The sumach lifts its reddening cones, 
 
 And the black nightshade's berries shine, 
 And broad, unsightly burdocks fold 
 45 The household ruin, century-old. 
 
 Here, in the dim colonial time 
 
 Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, 
 A woman lived, tradition saith, 
 
 Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, 
 50 And witched and plagued the country-side, 
 Till at the hangman's hand she died. 
 
 Sit with me while the westering day 
 Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, 
 And, haply, ere yon loitering sail, 
 
 55 That round the upper headland falls 
 Below Deer Island's pines, or sees 
 Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees 
 
 Rise black against the sinking sun, 
 My idyl of its days of old, 
 60 The valley's legend shall be told. 
 
238 WH1TTIER. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE HUSKING. 
 
 It was the pleasant harvest-time, 
 When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
 And garrets bend beneath their load, 
 
 And the old swallow-haunted barns, — 
 65 Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 
 
 Through which the moted sunlight streams, 
 
 And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
 The red plumes of the roosted cocks, 
 And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, — 
 
 70 Are filled with summer's ripened stores, 
 Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
 From their low scaffolds to their eaves. 
 
 On Esek Harden's oaken floor, 
 With many an autumn threshing worn, 
 J$ Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 
 
 And thither came young men and maids, 
 Beneath a moon that, large and low, 
 Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 
 
 They took their places ; some by chance, 
 80 And others by a merry voice 
 
 Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 
 
 How pleasantly the rising moon, 
 Between the shadow of the mows, 
 Looked on them through the great elm-boughs 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 239 
 
 8$ On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, 
 On girlhood with its solid curves 
 Of healthful strength and painless nerves! 
 
 And jests went round, and laughs that made 
 The house-dog answer with his howl, 
 90 And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; 
 
 And quaint old songs their fathers sung 
 In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
 Ere Norman William trod their shores; 
 
 And tales, whose merry license shook 
 95 The fat sides of the Saxon thane, 
 Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — 
 
 Rude plays to Celt. and Cimbri known, 
 The charms and riddles that beguiled 
 On Oxus' banks the young world's child, — 
 
 100 That primal picture-speech wherein 
 
 Have youth and maid the story told, 
 So new in each, so dateless old, 
 
 Recalling pastoral Ruth in her 
 
 Who waited, blushing and demure, 
 105 The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. 
 
 99. The Oxus, which was the great river of Upper Asia, 
 flc wed past what has been regarded as the birthplace of Western 
 ooople, who emigrated from that centre. Some of the riddles 
 and plays which we have are of great antiquity and may have 
 Seen handed down from the time when our ancestors were still 
 Asiatics. 
 
240 WHITTIER. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 But still the sweetest voice was mute 
 That river- valley ever heard 
 From lips of maid or throat of bird ; 
 
 For Mabel Martin sat apart, 
 i io And let the hay-mow's shadow fall 
 Upon the loveliest face of all. 
 
 She sat apart, as one forbid, 
 Who knew that none would condescend 
 To own the Witch- wife's child a friend. 
 
 115 The seasons scarce had gone their round, 
 Since curious thousands thronged to see 
 Her mother at the gallows-tree ; 
 
 And mocked the prison-palsied limbs 
 
 That faltered on the fatal stairs, 
 
 120 And wan lip trembling with its prayers! 
 
 Few questioned of the sorrowing child, 
 Or, when they saw the mother die, 
 Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 
 
 They went up to their homes that day, 
 [25 As men and Christians justified: 
 
 God willed it, and the wretch had died! 
 
 117. In Upham's History of Salem Witchcraft will be found 
 an account of the trial and execution of Susanna Martin fo» 
 witchcraft. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 241 
 
 Dear God and Father of us all, 
 Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
 Forgive the blindness that denies ! 
 
 130 Forgive thy creature when he takes, 
 For the all-perfect love thou art, 
 Some grim creation of his heart. 
 
 Cast down our idols, overturn 
 Our bloody altars ; let us see * 
 135 Thyself in Thy humanity ! 
 
 Young Mabel from her mother's grave 
 Crept to her desolate hearth- stone, 
 And wrestled with her fate alone; 
 
 With love, and anger, and despair, 
 140 The phantoms of disordered sense, 
 The awful doubts of Providence ! 
 
 Oh, dreary broke the winter days, 
 And dreary fell the winter nights 
 When, one by one, the neighboring lights 
 
 145 Went out, and human sounds grew still, 
 And all the phantom-peopled dark 
 Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. 
 
 And summer days were sad and long, 
 And sad the uncompanioned eves, 
 150 And sadder sunset- tinted leaves, 
 
 And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; 
 She scarcely felt the soft caress, 
 The beauty died of loneliness! 
 16 
 
242 WHIT TIER. 
 
 The school-boys jeered her as they passed, 
 
 155 And, when she sought the house of prayer,- 
 
 Her mother's curse pursued her there. 
 
 And still o'er many a neighboring door 
 She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, 
 To guard against her mother's harm: 
 
 160 That mother, poor and sick and lame, 
 Who daily, by the old arm-chair, 
 Folded her withered hands in prayer ; — 
 
 Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, 
 Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
 165 When her dim eyes could read no more ! 
 
 Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
 Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
 So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 
 
 And still her weary wheel went round 
 17c Day after day, with no relief: 
 
 §mall leisure have the poor for grief. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE CHAMPION. 
 
 So in the shadow Mabel sits; 
 
 Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, 
 Her smile is sadder than her tears. 
 
 1 75 But cruel eyes have found her out, 
 And cruel lips repeat her name, 
 And taunt her with her mother's shame. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 243 
 
 She answered not with railing words, 
 But drew her apron o'er her face, 
 180 And, sobbing, glided from the place. 
 
 And only pausing at the door, 
 
 Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
 Of one who, in her better days, 
 
 Had been her warm and steady friend, 
 185 Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
 Even Esek Harden half afraid. 
 
 He felt that mute appeal of tears, 
 And, starting, with an angry frown, 
 Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 
 
 190 " Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
 " This passes harmless mirth or jest; 
 I brook no insult to my guest. 
 
 " She is indeed her mother's child ; 
 But God's sweet pity ministers 
 195 Unto no whiter soul than hers. 
 
 1 ' Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; 
 I never knew her harm a fly, 
 And witch or not, God knows — not I. 
 
 "I know who swore her life away ; 
 200 And as God lives, I 'd not condemn 
 An Indian dog on word of them." 
 
 The broadest lands in all the town, 
 The skill to guide, the power to awe, 
 Were Harden 's ; and his word was law. 
 
244 WHITT1ER. 
 
 205 None dared withstand him to his face, 
 But one sly maiden spake aside: 
 " The little witch is evil-eyed! 
 
 11 Her mother only killed a cow, 
 Or witched a churn or dairy -pan ; 
 no But she, forsooth, must charm a man! " 
 
 PART V. 
 
 IN THE SHADOW. 
 
 Poor Mabel, homeward turning, passed 
 The nameless terrors of the wood, 
 And saw, as if a ghost pursued, 
 
 Her shadow gliding in the moon; 
 215 The soft breath of the west- wind gave 
 A chill as from her mother's grave. 
 
 How dreary seemed the silent house! 
 Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare 
 Its windows had a dead man's stare 1 
 
 820 And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, 
 The tremulous shadow of a birch 
 Reached out and touched the door's low porch 
 
 As if to lift its latch: hard by, 
 A sudden warning call she heard, 
 125 The night-cry of a brooding bird. 
 
 She leaned against the«door; her face, 
 So fair, so young, so full of pain, 
 Wliite in the moonlight's silver rain. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 245 
 
 The river, on its pebbled rim, 
 230 Made music such as childhood knew; 
 
 The door-yard tree was whispered through 
 
 By voices such as childhood's ear 
 Had heard in moonlights long ago ; 
 And through the willow-boughs below 
 
 235 She saw the rippled waters shine; 
 
 Beyond, in waves of shade and light, 
 The hills rolled off into the night. 
 
 She saw and heard, but over all 
 A sense of some transforming spell, 
 240 The shadow of her sick heart fell. 
 
 And still across the wooded space 
 The harvest lights of Harden shone, 
 And song and jest and laugh went on. 
 
 And he, so gentle, true, and strong, 
 245 Of men the bravest and the best, 
 
 Had he, too, scorned her with the rest? 
 
 She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
 And, in her old and simple way, 
 To teach her bitter heart to pray. 
 
 250 Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith 
 Grew to a low, despairing cry 
 Of utter misery : *'* Let me die! 
 
 " Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, 
 
 And hide me where the cruel speech 
 
 255 And mocking finger may not reach ! 
 
246 WHIT TIER. 
 
 " I dare not breathe my mother's name: 
 A daughter's right I dare not crave 
 To weep above her unblest grave ! 
 
 " Let me not live until my heart, 
 260 With few to pity, and with none 
 To love me, hardens into stone. 
 
 M O God ! have mercy on thy child, 
 Whose faith in thee grows weak and small, 
 And take me ere I lose it all! " 
 
 265 A shadow on the moonlight fell, 
 
 And murmuring wind and wave became 
 A voice whose burden was her name. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 Had then God heard her? Had He sent 
 His angel down ? In flesh and blood, 
 270 Before her Esek Harden stood! 
 
 He laid his hand upon her arm: 
 
 u Dear Mabel, this no more shall be.; 
 Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. 
 
 " You know rough Esek Harden well; 
 275 And if he seems no suitor gay, 
 
 And if his hair is touched with gray, 
 
 " The maiden grown shall never find 
 
 His heart less warm than when she smiled, 
 Upon his knees, a little child 1 " 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 247 
 
 280 Her tears of grief were tears of joy, 
 As, folded in his strong embrace, 
 She looked in Esek Harden 's face. 
 
 44 Oh, truest friend of all! " she said, 
 
 14 God bless you for your kindly thought, 
 285 And make me worthy of my lotl " 
 
 He led her forth, and, blent in one, 
 Beside their happy pathway ran 
 The shadows of the maid and man. 
 
 He led her through his dewy fields, 
 290 To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 
 
 And through the doors the huskers showed. 
 
 44 Good friends and neighbors! " Esek said, 
 41 1 'tin weary of this lonely life; 
 In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 
 
 295 " She greets you kindly, one and all ; 
 The past is past, and all offence 
 Falls harmless from her innocence. 
 
 44 Henceforth she stands no more alone; 
 You know what Esek Harden is ; — 
 300 He brooks no wrong to him or his. 
 
 44 Now let the merriest tales be told, 
 And let the sweetest songs be sung 
 That ever made the old heart young I 
 
 * * For now the lost has found a home ; 
 P5 And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 
 As all the household joys return 1 " 
 
248 WHITTIER. 
 
 Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon, 
 Between the shadow of the mows, 
 Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! 
 
 310 On Mabel's curls of golden hair, 
 
 On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; 
 
 And the wind whispered, " It is well ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 
 
 [" This ballad was written," Mr. Whittier says, 
 " on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. Cob* 
 bier Keezar was a noted character among the first 
 settlers in the valley of the Merrimack."] 
 
 The beaver cut his timber 
 With patient teeth that day, 
 
 The minks were fish-wards, and the crows 
 Surveyors of highway, — 
 
 5 When Keezar sat on the hillside 
 Upon his cobbler's form, 
 With a pan of coals on either hand 
 To keep his waxed-ends warm. 
 
 And there, in the golden weather, 
 IO He stitched and hammered and sung; 
 In the brook he moistened his leather, 
 In the pewter mug his tongue. 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 249 
 
 Well knew the tough old Teuton 
 Who brewed the stoutest ale, 
 15 And he paid the goodwife's reckoning 
 In the coin of song and tale. 
 
 The songs they still are singing 
 
 Who dress the hills of vine, 
 The tales that haunt the Brocken 
 20 And whisper down the Rhine. 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
 
 The swift stream wound away, 
 Through birches and scarlet maples 
 
 Flashing in foam and spray, — 
 
 25 Down on the sharp-horned ledges 
 Plunging in steep cascade, 
 Tossing its white-maned waters 
 Against the hemlock's shade. 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
 30 East and west and north and south; 
 Only the village of fishers 
 Down at the river's mouth; 
 
 Only here and there a clearing, 
 With its farm-house rude and new, 
 35 And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
 Where the scanty harvest grew. 
 
 No shout of home-bound reapers, 
 No vintage-song he heard, 
 
 19. The Brocken is the highest summit of the Hartz range in 
 Germany, and a great body of superstitions has gathered about 
 the whole range. May-day night, called Walpurgis Night, is 
 *eld to be the time of a great witch festival on the Brocken. 
 
250 WHITT1ER. 
 
 And on the green no dancing feet 
 40 The merry violin stirred. 
 
 " Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, 
 " When nature herself is glad, 
 
 And the painted woods are laughing 
 At the faces so sour and sad? " 
 
 45 Small heed had the careless cobbler 
 What sorrow of heart was theirs 
 Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
 And planted a state with prayers, — 
 
 Hunting of witches and warlocks, 
 50 Smiting the heathen horde, — 
 One hand on the mason's trowel, 
 And one on the soldier's sword! 
 
 But give him his ale and cider, 
 Give him his pipe and song, 
 $$ Little he cared for Church or State, 
 Or the balance of right and wrong. 
 
 14 'Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — 
 
 " And for rest a snuffle of psalms! " 
 He smote on his leathern apron 
 60 With his brown and waxen palms. 
 
 44 Oh for the purple harvests 
 Of the days when I was young! 
 
 For the merry grape-stained maidens, 
 And the pleasant songs they sung! 
 
 65 " Oh for the breath of vineyards, 
 Of apples and nuts and wine ! 
 
COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 251 
 
 For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
 Down the grand old river Rhine I " 
 
 A tear in his blue eye glistened, 
 70 And dropped on his beard so gray. 
 11 Old, old am I," said Keezar, 
 " And the Rhine flows far away! " 
 
 But a cunning man was the cobbler; 
 He could call the birds from the trees, 
 J$ Charm the black snake out of the ledges, 
 And bring back the swarming bees. 
 
 All the virtues of herbs and metals, 
 
 All the lore of the woods, he knew, 
 And the arts of the Old World mingled 
 80 With the marvels of the New. 
 
 Well he knew the tricks of magic, 
 
 And the lapstone on his knee 
 Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, 
 
 Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 
 
 85 For the mighty master Agrippa 
 
 Wrought it with spell and rhyme 
 From a fragment of mystic moonstone 
 In the tower of Nettesheim. 
 
 To a cobbler Minnesinger 
 90 The marvellous stone gave he, — 
 
 84. Dr. John Dee was a man of vast knowledge, who had an 
 extensive museum, library, and apparatus ; he claimed to be an 
 astrologer, and had acquired the reputation of having dealings 
 with evil spirits, and a mob was raised which destroyed the 
 greater part of his possessions. He professed to raise the dead 
 and had a magic crystal. He died a pauper in 1608. 
 
 85. Henry Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535) was an alchemist. 
 
252 WHITTIER. 
 
 And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, 
 Who brought it over the sea. 
 
 He held up that mystic lapstone, 
 He held it up like a lens, 
 95 And he counted the long years coming 
 By twenties and by tens. 
 
 " One hundred years,' * quoth Keezar, 
 
 < < And fifty have I told: 
 Now open the new before me, 
 loo And shut me out the old! " 
 
 Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 
 
 Rolled from the magic stone, 
 And a marvellous picture mingled 
 
 The unknown and the known. 
 
 105 Still ran the stream to the river, 
 And river and ocean joined; 
 And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line* 
 And cold north hills behind. 
 
 But the mighty forest was broken 
 no By many a steepled town, 
 
 By many a white-walled farm-house, 
 And many a garner brown. 
 
 Turning a score of mill-wheels, 
 The stream no more ran free ; 
 l White sails on the winding river, 
 White sails on the far-off sea. 
 
 Below in the noisy village 
 The flags were floating gay, 
 
COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 253 
 
 And shone on a thousand faces 
 1 20 The light of a holiday. 
 
 Swiftly the rival ploughmen 
 
 Turned the brown earth from their shares; 
 Here were the farmer's treasures, 
 
 There were the craftsman's wares. 
 
 125 Golden the goodwife's butter, 
 Ruby her currant- wine ; 
 Grand were the strutting turkeys, 
 Fat were the beeves and swine. 
 
 Yellow and red were the apples, 
 130 And the ripe pears russet-brown, 
 And the peaches had stolen blushes 
 From the girls who shook them down. 
 
 And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 
 That shame the toil of art, 
 135 Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 
 Of the garden's tropic heart. 
 
 44 What is it I see? " said Keezar: 
 
 " Am I here, or am I there? 
 Is it a fete at Bingen? 
 140 Do I look on Frankfort fair? 
 
 11 But where are the clowns and puppets, 
 
 And imps with horns and tail? 
 And where are the Rhenish flagons? 
 
 And where is the foaming ale? 
 
 145 " Strange things, I know, will happen, — 
 Strange things the Lord permits ; 
 
254 WHITTIER. 
 
 But that droughty folk should be jolly 
 Puzzles my poor old wits. 
 
 " Here are smiling manly faces, 
 150 And the maiden's step is gay ; 
 
 Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, 
 Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 
 
 " Here 's pleasure without regretting, 
 And good without abuse, 
 155 The holiday and the bridal 
 Of beauty and of use. 
 
 " Here 's a priest and there is a Quaker, — 
 
 Do the cat and dog agree ? 
 Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood ? 
 160 Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? 
 
 " Would the old folk know their children ? 
 
 Would they own the graceless town, 
 With never a ranter to worry 
 
 And never a witch to drown ? ' * 
 
 165 Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
 Laughed like a school-boy gay; 
 Tossing his arms above him, 
 The lapstone rolled away. 
 
 It rolled down the rugged hillside, 
 1 70 It spun like a wheel bewitched, 
 
 It plunged through the leaning willows, 
 And into the river pitched. 
 
 There, in the deep, dark water, 
 The magic stone lies still, 
 
BARCLAY OF URY. 255 
 
 175 Under the leaning willows 
 In the shadow of the hill. 
 
 But oft the idle fisher 
 
 Sits on the shadowy bank, 
 And his dreams make marvellous pictures 
 180 Where the wizard's lapstone sank. 
 
 And still, in the summer twilights, 
 
 When the river seems to run 
 Out from the inner glory, 
 
 Warm with the melted sun, 
 
 185 The weary mill-girl lingers 
 
 Beside the charmed stream, 
 And the sky and the golden water 
 Shape and color her dream. 
 
 Fair wave the sunset gardens, 
 190 The rosy signals fly; 
 
 Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 
 And love goes sailing by! 
 
 V. 
 
 BARCLAY OF URY. 
 
 Among the earliest converts to the doctrines 
 of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old 
 and distinguished soldier, who had fought under 
 Gustavus Adolphus in Germany. As a Quaker, 
 he became the object of persecution and abuse at 
 
256 WHITTIER. 
 
 the hands of the magistrates and the populace. 
 None bore the indignities of the mob with greater 
 patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud 
 gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an 
 occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he 
 should be treated so harshly in his old age who 
 had been so honored before. " I find more satis 
 faction," said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being 
 thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, 
 a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, 
 as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on 
 the road and conduct me to public entertainment 
 in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain 
 my favor." — Whittier. 
 
 Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
 By the kirk and college green, 
 
 Rode the Laird of Ury; 
 Close behind him, close beside, 
 5 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; 
 io And the begging carlin, late 
 Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 
 Cursed him as he passed her. 
 
 Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
 Up the streets of Aberdeen 
 15 Came he slowly riding; 
 
BARCLAY OF URY. 257 
 
 And, to all he saw and heard 
 Answering not with bitter word, 
 Turning not for chiding. 
 
 Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
 20 Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 
 Loose and free and fro ward; 
 Quoth the foremost, ' ' Ride him down ! 
 Push him! prick him! through the town 
 Drive the Quaker coward ! ' ' 
 
 25 But from out the thickening crowd 
 
 Cried a sudden voice and loud : 
 "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay !" 
 
 And the old man at his side 
 
 Saw a comrade, battle tried, 
 30 Scarred and sunburned darkly; 
 
 Who with ready weapon bare, 
 Fronting to the troopers there, 
 
 Cried aloud : " God save us, 
 Call ye coward him who stood 
 35 Ankle deep in Liitzen's blood, 
 
 With the brave Gustavus? " 
 
 u Nay, I do not need thy sword, 
 Comrade mine, ,, said Ury's lord; 
 
 11 Put it up, I pray thee: 
 40 Passive to his holy will, 
 Trust I in my Master still, 
 
 Even though he slay me. 
 
 35. It was at Liitzen, near Leipzig, that Gustavus Adolphua 
 {ell in 1632. He was the hero of Schiller's Wallenstein, which 
 Carlyle calls "the greatest tragedy of the eighteenth cent- 
 ury." 
 
 17 
 
258 WHITTIER. 
 
 11 Pledges of thy love and faith, 
 Proved on many a field of death, 
 45 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, 
 50 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! 
 
 55 " Speak the word, and, master mine, 
 
 As we charged on Tilly's line, 
 And his Walloon lancers, 
 
 Smiting through their midst we '11 teach 
 
 Civil look and decent speech 
 60 To these boyish prancers ! ' ' 
 
 1 ' Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
 Like beginning, like the end: " 
 
 Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
 M Is the sinful servant more 
 65 Than his gracious Lord who bore 
 
 Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 
 
 " Give me joy that in His name 
 I can bear, with patient frame, 
 All these vain ones offer; 
 
 *>6 Count de Tilly was a fierce soldier under Wallenstein 
 who in the Thirty Years' War laid siege to Magdeburg, and 
 after two years took it and displayed great barbarity towarc 
 the inhabitants. The phrase, "like old Tilly," is still heard 
 sometimes in New England of any piece of special ferocity. 
 
BARCLAY OF URY. 259 
 
 70 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, 
 75 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, 
 80 Blessed me as I passed her door; 
 
 And the snooded daughter, 
 Through her casement glancing down. 
 Smiled on him who bore renown 
 
 From red fields of slaughter. 
 
 85 u 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, 
 
 90 Warm and fresh and living. 
 
 " Through this dark and stormy night 
 Faith beholds a feeble light 
 
 Up the blackness streaking ; 
 Knowing God's own time is best, 
 95 In a patient hope I rest 
 
 For the full day- breaking ! M 
 
 So the Laird of Ury said, 
 Turning slow his horse's head 
 
 Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
 
260 WHITTIER. 
 
 loo Where, through iron grates, he heard 
 Poor disciples of the Word 
 Preach of Christ arisen ! 
 
 Not in vain, Confessor old, 
 Unto us the tale is told 
 105 Of thy day of trial ; 
 
 Every age on him, who strays 
 From its broad and beaten ways, 
 Pours its sevenfold vial. 
 
 Happy he whose inward ear 
 no Angel comfortings can hear, 
 
 O'er the rabble's laughter; 
 And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
 Glimpses through the smoke discern 
 
 Of the good hereafter. 
 
 115 Knowing this, that never yet 
 Share of Truth was vainly set 
 
 In the world's wide fallow; 
 After hands shall sow the seed, 
 After hands from hill and mead 
 
 120 Reap the harvests yellow. 
 
 Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
 Must the moral pioneer 
 
 From the Future borrow ; 
 Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
 125 And, on midnight's sky of rain, 
 
 Paint the golden morrow! 
 
THE TWO RABBIS. 261 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE TWO RABBIS. 
 / » / 
 
 The Rabbi Nathan, twoscore years and ten, 
 Walked blameless through the evil world, and 
 
 then, z , 
 
 Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, 
 Met a temptation all too strong to bear, 
 5 And miserably sinned. So, adding not 
 
 Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taught 
 No more among the elders, but went out 
 From the great congregation girt about 
 With sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, 
 
 io Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed, 
 Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laid 
 Open before him for the Bath- Col's choice, 
 Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, 
 Behold the royal preacher's words: " A friend 
 
 15 Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end ; 
 And for the evil day thy brother lives." 
 Marvelling, he said : u It is the Lord who gives 
 Counsel in need. At Ecbatana dwells 
 Rabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excels 
 
 20 In righteousness and wisdom, as the trees 
 Of Lebanon the small weeds that the bees 
 Bow with their weight. I will arise, and lay 
 My sins before him." 
 
 12. Daughter of the Voice is the meaning of Bath-Col, which 
 was a sort of divination practised by the Jews when the gift of 
 prophecy had died out. Something of the same sort of divina- 
 tion has been used amongst Christians when the Bible has been 
 opened at hap-hazard and some answer expected to a question 
 in the first passage that meets the eye. 
 
262 WBITTLER, 
 
 And he went his way- 
 Barefooted, fasting long, with many prayers ; 
 
 25 But even as one who, followed unawares, 
 Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand 
 Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fannec 
 By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near 
 Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, 
 
 30 So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting low 
 The wail of David's penitential woe, 
 Before him still the old temptation came, 
 And mocked him with the motion and the shame 
 Of such desires that, shuddering, he abhorred 
 
 35 Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord 
 To 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 away 
 
 40 Rose on the desert's rim ; and Nathan, faint 
 And footsore, pausing where for some dead saint 
 The faith of Islam reared a domed tomb, 
 Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom 
 lie greeted kindly: " May the Holy One 
 
 45 Answer thy prayers, O stranger! M Whereupon 
 The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, 
 Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men 
 Wept, praising Him whose gracious providence 
 Made their paths one. But straightway, as the 
 sense 
 
 50 Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore 
 Himself away: " O friend beloved, no more 
 Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, 
 Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. 
 Haply thy prayers, since nought availeth mine, 
 
THE TWO RABBIS. 263 
 
 55 May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. 
 Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned ! " 
 
 Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind 
 Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare 
 The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. 
 
 6c ** 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 desire 
 Should wander ' ? Burning with a hidden fire 
 That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee 
 
 65 For pity and for help, as thou to me. 
 
 Pray for me, O my friend! " But Nathan cried, 
 11 Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac! ' 
 
 Side by side 
 In the low sunshine by the turban stone 
 They knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, 
 
 70 Forgetting, in the agony and stress 
 
 Of 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, 
 
 75 Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face! 
 
 Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, 
 Traced on the targum-marge of Onkelos 
 In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words we read : 
 44 Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead ; 
 
 59. Which he wore as a mortification of the flesh. 
 
 77. The targum was a paraphrase of some portion of Script- 
 are in the Chaidee language. It was on the margin of the 
 most ancient targum — that of Onkelos — that Rabbi Nathan 
 vrote his words. 
 
264 WHITTIER. 
 
 80 Forget it in love's service, and the debt 
 Thou 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 I n 
 
 iP%nJ- 
 
 1 > 
 
 VII. 
 
 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, 
 • 5 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 whereby 
 His thoughts went upward broken by that cry ; 
 And, looking from the casement, saw below 
 lo A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, 
 And withered hands held up to him, who cried 
 For alms as one who might not be denied. 
 
 She cried, ' ' For the dear love of Him who gave 
 His life for ours, my child from bondage save, — 
 
 15 My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves 
 In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves 
 Lap the white walls of Tunis I " — " What I can 
 I give," Tritemius said: ' ' my prayers." — "0 
 
 man 
 Of God! " she cried, for grief had made her bold 
 
 20 " Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. 
 
THE GIFT OF TR1TEMIUS. 265 
 
 Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; 
 Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies. ,, 
 
 " Woman! " Tritemius answered, " from our door 
 None go unfed; hence are we always poor: 
 25 A single soldo is our only store. 
 
 Thou hast our prayers ; — what can we give thee 
 more? " 
 
 u Give me," she said, " the silver candlesticks 
 On either side of the great crucifix. 
 God well may spare them on His errands sped, 
 30 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 prize 
 35 Above the gifts upon His altar piled !) 
 
 Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." 
 
 But his hand trembled as the holy alms 
 He placed within the beggar's eager palms; 
 And as she vanished down the linden shade, 
 40 He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. 
 
 So the day passed, and when the twilight came 
 He woke to find the chapel all aflame, . 
 And ; dumb with grateful, wonder, to behold 
 Upon the altar candlesticks of gold! 
 
266 WHITT1ER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE BROTHER OF MERCY. 
 
 Piero Luca, known of all the town 
 As the gray porter by the Pitti wall 
 Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, 
 Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down 
 5 His last sad burden, and beside his mat 
 The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat. 
 
 Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, 
 Soft sunset lights through green Yal d' Arno sifted; 
 Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted 
 
 fo Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, 
 In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life: 
 But when at last came upward from the street 
 Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, 
 The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, 
 
 15 Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. 
 
 And the monk said, " 'T is but the Brotherhood 
 Of Mercy going on some errand good : 
 
 6. The monastery of La Certosa is about four miles distant 
 from Florence, the scene of this little poem. 
 
 8. The Val d'Arno is the valley of the river Arno, upon which 
 Florence lies. 
 
 16. The Brethren of the Misericordia, an association which 
 •ad its origin in the thirteenth century, is composed mainly of 
 the wealthy and prosperous, whose duty it is to nurse the sick. 
 to aid those who have been injured by accident, and to secure 
 decent burial to the poor and friendless. They are summoned 
 by the sound of a bell, and, when it is heard, the member slips 
 %vvay from ball-room, or dinner party, or wherever he may be 
 puts on the black robe and hood, entirely concealing his face v 
 elit openings being provided for the eyes, and performs the 
 
THE BROTHER OF MERCY. 267 
 
 Their black masks by the palace-wall I see." 
 Piero answered faintly, u Woe is me ! 
 
 2c This d;iy for the first time in forty years 
 In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, 
 Calling me with my brethren of the mask, 
 Beggar and prince alike, to some new task 
 Of love or pity, — haply from the street 
 
 25 To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet 
 Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, 
 To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, 
 Down the long twilight of the corridors, 
 Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. 
 
 30 I loved the work: it was its own reward. 
 I never counted on it to offset 
 My sins, which are many, or make less my debt 
 To the free grace and mercy of our Lord ; 
 But somehow, father, it has come to be 
 
 35 In these long years so much a part of me, 
 I should not know myself, if lacking it, 
 But with the work the worker too would die, 
 And in my place some other self would sit 
 Joyful or sad, — what matters, if not I? 
 
 40 And now all 's over. Woe is me!" 
 
 "My son," 
 The monk said soothingly, ' ' thy work is done ; 
 And no more as a servant, but the guest 
 Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest. 
 No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost 
 
 45 Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down 
 Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown 
 Forever and forever." — Piero tossed 
 On his sick-pillow : " Miserable me ! 
 I am too poor for such grand company ; 
 
 duty assigned to him. This perfect concealment is to aid in 
 securing the perfect equality enjoined by the Order. 
 
268 WHIT TIER. 
 
 50 The crown would be too heavy for this gray- 
 Old head ; and God forgive me if I say- 
 It would be hard to sit there night and day, 
 Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught 
 With these hard hands, that all my life have 
 wrought, 
 
 55 Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. 
 
 I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake, 
 Counting my beads. Mine 's but a crazy head, 
 Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead. 
 And if one goes to heaven without a heart, 
 
 60 God knows he leaves behind his better part. 
 I love my fellow-men : the worst I know 
 I would do good to. Will death change me so 
 That I shall sit among the lazy saints, 
 Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints 
 
 65 Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet 
 Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, 
 Or ass o'erladen ! Must I rate man less 
 Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness ? 
 Me thinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin !) 
 
 70 The world of pain were better, if therein 
 One's heart might still be human, and desires 
 Of natural pity drop upon its fires 
 Some cooling tears." 
 
 Thereat the pale monk crossed 
 His brow, and, muttering, u Madman ! thou art 
 lost!" 
 
 75 Took up his pyx and fled ; and, left alone, 
 
 The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan 
 That sank into a prayer, '* Thy will be done ! " 
 
 53. The Tribune is a hall in the Uffizi Palace in Florence 
 ffhere are assembled some of the most world-renowned statues 
 including the Venus de' Medici. 
 
 66. Strada, street. 
 
PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 269 
 
 Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, 
 Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, 
 
 80 And of a voice like that of her who bore him, 
 Tender and most compassionate: " Never fear I 
 For heaven is love, as God himself is love; 
 Thy work below shall be thy work above." 
 And when he looked, lo ! in the stern monk's place 
 
 85 He saw the shining of an angel's face ! 
 
 The Traveller broke the pause. " I 've seen 
 The Brothers down the long street steal. 
 
 Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, 
 And felt to doff my hat and kneel 
 90 With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, 
 
 For blessings on their pious care." 
 
 \ 
 
 IX. 
 THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 
 
 1697. 
 
 [Samuel Sewall was one of a family notable 
 in New England annals, and himself an eminent 
 man in his generation. He was born in England 
 in 1652, and was brought by his father to this 
 country in 1661; but his father and grandfather 
 
 86. The poem of The Brother of Mercy forms a part of The 
 Tent on the Beach, in which Whittier pictures himself, the Trav- 
 eler (Bayard Taylor), the Man of Books (J. T. Fields), camping 
 ^pon Salisbury beach and telling stories. 
 
270 WB1TTIER. 
 
 were both pioneers in New England, and the fam- 
 ily home was in Newbury, Massachusetts. Here 
 Sewall spent his boyhood, but after graduating at 
 Harvard he first essayed preaching, and then en- 
 tered upon secular pursuits, becoming a member of 
 the government and finally chief justice. He pre- 
 sided at the sad trial of witches, and afterward 
 made public confession of his error in a noble papei 
 which was read in church before the congregation, 
 and assented to by the judge, who stood alone as it 
 was read and bowed at its conclusion. The paper 
 is preserved in the first volume of the Diary oj 
 Samuel Sewall, published by the Massachusetts 
 Historical Society. He was an upright man, of 
 tender conscience and reverent mind. His charac- 
 ter is well drawn by the poet in lines 13- 20.] 
 
 Up and down the village streets / 
 Strange are the forms my fancy meets, 
 For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, 
 And through the veil of a closed lid 
 5 The ancient worthies I see again: 
 I hear the tap of the elder's cane, 
 And his awful periwig I see, 
 And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. 
 Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, 
 10 His black cap hiding his whitened hair, 
 Walks the Judge of the great Assize, 
 Samuel Sewall the good and wise. 
 His face with lines of firmness wrought, 
 He wears the look of a man unbought, 
 
PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 271 
 
 15 Who swears to his hurt and changes not; 
 Yet, touched and softened nevertheless, 
 With the grace of Christian gentleness, 
 The face that a child would climb to kiss! 
 True and tender and brave and just, 
 
 20 That man might honor and woman trust. 
 
 Touching and sad, a tale is told, 
 Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, 
 Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept 
 With a haunting sorrow that never slept, 
 
 25 As the circling year brought round the time 
 Of an error that left the sting of crime, 
 When he sat on the bench of the witchcraft 
 
 courts, 
 With the laws of Moses and Hale's Reports, 
 And spake, in the name of both, the word 
 
 30 That gave the witch's neck to the cord, 
 And piled the oaken planks that pressed 
 The feeble life from the warlock's breast! 
 All the day long, from dawn to dawn, 
 His door was bolted, his curtain drawn ; 
 
 15. See Psalm xv. 4. 
 
 23. It was the custom in Sewall's time for churches and indi- 
 viduals to hold fasts whenever any public or private need sug- 
 gested the fitness ; and as state and church were very closely 
 connected, the General Court sometimes ordered a fast; out of 
 ihis custom sprang the annual fast in spring, now observed, 
 but it is of comparatively recent date. Such a fast was ordered 
 on the 14th of January, 1697, when Sewall made his special 
 confession. He is said to have observed the day privately on 
 each annual return thereafter. The custom still holds for 
 churches to appoint their own fasts. 
 
 28. Sir Matthew Hale, the great English judge, was a devout 
 believer in the existence of witchcraft, and in 1645 a great 
 number of trials were held before him. The reports of those 
 Irials furnished precedents for Sewall and his court, not Unas- 
 listed by the records in the Old Testament. 
 
272 WHITTIER. 
 
 35 No foot on his silent threshold trod, 
 No eye looked on him save that of God, 
 As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms 
 Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, 
 And, with precious proofs from the sacred word 
 
 40 Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, 
 His faith confirmed and his trust renewed 
 That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, 
 Might be washed away in the mingled flood 
 Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood I 
 
 45 Green forever the memory be 
 Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, 
 Whom even his errors glorified, 
 Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side 
 By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! 
 
 50 Honor and praise to the Puritan 
 
 Who the halting step of his age outran, 
 And, seeing the infinite worth of man 
 In the priceless gift the Father gave, 
 In the infinite love that stooped to save, 
 
 55 Dared not brand his brother a slave! 
 
 " Who doth such wrong/' he was wont to say, 
 In his own quaint, picture-loving way, 
 " Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade 
 Which God shall cast down upon his head ! " 
 
 60 Widely as heaven and hell, contrast 
 That brave old jurist of the past 
 
 55. In 1700 Sewall wrote a little tract of three pages on Tht 
 Selling of Joseph, which has been characterized as " an acute, 
 compact, powerful statement of the case against American slav- 
 ery, leaving, indeed, almost nothing new to be said a century 
 Itnd a half afterward, when the sad thing came up for final ad 
 Justment." Reprinted in Mass. Hist. Society's Proceedings for 
 \863-1864, pp. 161-165. 
 
PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 273 
 
 And the cunning trickster and knave of courts 
 Who the holy features of Truth distorts, — 
 Ruling as right the will of the strong, 
 
 65 Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; 
 
 Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak 
 Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; 
 Scoffing aside at party's nod 
 Order of nature and law of God ; 
 
 70 For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, 
 Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; 
 Justice of whom 't were vain to seek 
 As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! 
 Oh, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins ; 
 
 75 Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! 
 To the saintly soul of the early day, 
 To the Christian judge, let us turn and say: 
 *' Praise and thanks for an honest man! — 
 Glory to God for the Puritan ! " 
 
 80 I see, far southward, this quiet day, 
 The hills of Newbury rolling away, 
 With the many tints of the season gay, 
 Dreamily blending in autumn mist 
 Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. 
 
 85 Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, 
 Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, 
 A stone's toss over the narrow sound. 
 Inland, as far as the eye can go, 
 The hills curve round like a bended bow ; 
 
 90 A silver arrow from out them sprung, 
 . I see the shine of the Quasycung ; 
 
 67. There was an early belief that the Egyptians worshipped 
 pods of leek, but it has been shown that the belief rose from 
 certain restrictions in the use of onions laid upon the priests, 
 wid from the offering of them as a part of sacrifice. 
 18 
 
274 WHITTIER. 
 
 And, round and round, over valley and hill, 
 Old roads winding, as old roads will, 
 Here to a ferry, and there to a mill ; 
 95 And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, 
 Through green elm arches and maple leaves, — 
 Old homesteads sacred to all that can 
 Gladden or sadden the heart of man, — 
 Over whose threshold of oak and stone 
 
 loo Life and Death have come and gone I 
 
 There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, 
 Great beams sag from the ceiling low, 
 The dresser glitters with polished wares, 
 The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, 
 
 105 And the low, broad chimney shows the crack 
 By the earthquake made a century back. 
 Up from their midst springs the village spire 
 With the crest of its cock in the sun afire ; 
 Beyond are orchards and planting lands, 
 
 1 10 And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, 
 And, where north and south the coastlines run 
 The blink of the sea in breeze and sun ! 
 
 I see it all like a chart unrolled, 
 But my thoughts are full of the past and old, 
 
 115 I hear the tales of my boyhood told ; 
 
 And the shadows and shapes of early days 
 Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, 
 With measured movement and rhythmic chime 
 "Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. 
 
 120 T think of the old man wise and good 
 Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, 
 (A poet who never measured rhyme, 
 A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) 
 And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, 
 
 124. As a matter of fact Sewall was forty-five years old wheB 
 Ufa uttered his prophecy. 
 
PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 275 
 
 125 With his boyhood's love, on his native town, 
 Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, 
 His burden of prophecy yet remains, 
 For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind 
 To read in the ear of the musing mind : — 
 
 t3o "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast 
 As God appointed, shall keep its post; 
 As long as salmon shall haunt the deep 
 Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap ; 
 As long as pickerel swift and slim, 
 
 135 Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; 
 As long as the annual sea-fowl know 
 Their time to corne and their time to go ; 
 As long as cattle shall roam at will 
 The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill ; 
 
 140 As long as sheep shall look from the side 
 Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, 
 And Parker River, and salt-sea tide ; 
 As long as a wandering pigeon shall search 
 The fields below from his white-oak perch, 
 
 145 When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, 
 And the dry husks fall from the standing corn; 
 As long as Nature shall not grow old, 
 Nor drop her work from her doting hold, 
 And her care for the Indian corn forget, 
 
 150 And the yellow rows in pairs to set ; — 
 So long shall Christians here be born, 
 Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn! — 
 By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost, 
 Shall never a holy ear be lost, 
 
 130. This prophecy in very rhythmic prose was first pub- 
 ashed in Sewall's Phenomena Qucedam Apocalyptica. It will 
 be found in Coffin's History of Newburyport and in The Bod- 
 leys on Wheels, pp. 207, 20b. 
 
276 WHITTIER. 
 
 155 But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, 
 Be sown again in the fields of light 1 " 
 
 The Island still is purple with plums, 
 
 Up the river the salmon comes, 
 
 The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds 
 
 160 On hillside berries and marish seeds, — 
 All the beautiful signs remain, 
 From spring-time sowing to autumn rain 
 The good man's vision returns again! 
 And let us hope, as well we can, 
 
 165 That the Silent Angel who garners man 
 May find some grain as of old he found 
 In the human cornfield ripe and sound, 
 And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own 
 The precious seed by the fathers sown ! 
 
 X. 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 5 Singing she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But when she glanced to the far-off town, 
 White from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
MAUD MULLER. 277 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 10 And 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. 
 
 15 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 
 
 And asked a draught from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 20 And filled for him her small tin cup, 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
 
 44 Thanks! " said the Judge ; u a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quaffed.' ' 
 
 25 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier- torn gown, 
 30 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
278 WHITTIER. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 35 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 
 40 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. 
 
 1 l And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
 And all should bless me who left our door. ,, 
 
 45 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. 
 
 u And her modest answer and graceful air 
 50 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 11 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, 
 
 55 " But low of cattle and song of birds, 
 And health and quiet and loving words." 
 
MAUD MULLER. 279 
 
 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, 
 60 Aud 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 well 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 6$ 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 eyes 
 70 Looked 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 rooms 
 To dream of meadows and clover blooms. 
 
 75 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, 
 80 And many children played round her door. 
 
280 WHITTIER. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 
 
 85 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And, gazing down with timid grace, 
 90 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls ; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned, 
 
 95 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, 
 100 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. 
 
MAUD MULLER. 281 
 
 105 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 lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 1 10 Roll the stone from its grave away ! 
 
 106. The exigencies of rhyme have a heavy burden to bear ia 
 'Lis !ine. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born at Cum- 
 mington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794; 
 he died in New York, June 12, 1878. His first 
 poem, The Embargo, was published in Boston in 
 1809, and was written when lie was but thirteen 
 years old ; his last poem, Our Felloiv Worshippers, 
 was published in 1878. His long life thus was also 
 a long career as a writer, and his first published 
 poem prefigured the twofold character of his literary- 
 life, for while it was in poetic form it was more 
 distinctly a political article. He showed very early 
 a taste for poetry, and was encouraged to read and 
 write verse by his father, Dr. Peter Bryant, a 
 country physician of strong character and culti- 
 vated tastes. He was sent to Williams College in 
 the fall of 1810, where he remained two terms, 
 when he decided to leave and enter Yale Col- 
 lege ; but pecuniary troubles interfered with his 
 plans and he never completed his college course. 
 He pursued his literary studies at home, then be- 
 gan the study of law and was admitted to the bar 
 in 1815. Meantime he had been continuing to 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. m 283 
 
 write, and during this period wrote with many cor- 
 rections and changes the poem by which he is still 
 perhaps best known, Thanatopsis. It was pub- 
 lished in the Worth American Review for Septem- 
 ber, 1817, and the same periodical published a few 
 months afterward his lines To a Waterfowl, one of 
 the most characteristic and lovely of Bryant's 
 poems. Literature divided his attention with law, 
 but evidently had his heart. In 1821 he was in- 
 vited to read a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society of Harvard College, and he read The Ages, 
 a stately grave poem which shows his own poetic 
 power, his familiarity with the great masters 
 of literature, and his lofty, philosophic nature. 
 Shortly after this he issued a small volume of 
 poems, and his name began to be known as that of 
 the first American who had written poetry that 
 could take its place in universal literature. His 
 own decided preference for literature and the en- 
 couragement of friends led to his abandonment of 
 the law in 1825, and his removal to New York, 
 where he undertook the associate-editorship of 
 The New York Review and Athenceum Magazine. 
 Poetic genius is not caused or controlled by cir- 
 cumstance, but a purely literary life in a country 
 not yet educated in literature was impossible to a 
 man of no other means of support, and in a few 
 months, after the Review had vainly tried to main- 
 tain life by a frequent change of name, Bryant ac- 
 cepted an appointment as assistant editor of The 
 Evening Post. From 1826, then, until his death, 
 
284 t BRYANT. 
 
 Bryant was a journalist by profession. One effect 
 of this change in his life was to eliminate from his 
 poetry the political character which was displayed 
 in his first published poem and had several times 
 since showed itself. Thenceafter, he threw into 
 his journalistic occupation all those thoughts and 
 experiences which made him by nature a patriot 
 and political thinker ; he reserved for poetry the 
 calm reflection, love of nature, and purity of aspira- 
 tion which made him a poet. His editorial writing 
 was rendered strong and pure by his cultivated 
 taste and lofty ideals, but he presented the rare 
 combination of a poet who never sacrificed his love 
 of high literature and his devotion to art, and of a 
 publicist who retained a sound judgment and pur- 
 sued the most practical ends. 
 
 His life outwardly was uneventful. He made 
 four journeys to Europe, in 1834, 1845, 1852, 
 1857, and he made frequent tours in his own coun- 
 try. His observations on his travels were pub- 
 lished in Letters from a Traveller, Letters from the 
 East, and Letters from Spain and Other Countries. 
 He never held public office, except that in 1860 he 
 was a Presidential Elector, but he was connected 
 intimately with important movements in society, 
 literature, and politics, and was repeatedly called 
 upon to deliver addresses commemorative of emi- 
 nent citizens, as of Washington Irving, James 
 Fenimore Cooper, and at the unveiling of the bust 
 of Mazzini in the Central Park. His Orations 
 vnd Addresses have been gathered into a volume 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 285 
 
 The bulk of his poetry apart from his poetic 
 translations is not considerable, and is made up 
 almost wholly of short poems which are chiefly in- 
 spired by his love of nature. R. H. Dana in his 
 preface to the Idle Man says : "I shall never for- 
 get with what feeling my friend Bryant some years 
 ago 1 described to me the effect produced upon 
 him by his meeting for the first time with Words- 
 worth's Ballads. He lived, when quite young, where 
 but few works of poetry were to be had ; at a 
 period, too, when Pope was still the great idol of 
 the Temple of Art. He said, that upon opening 
 Wordsworth, a thousand springs seemed to gush up 
 at once in his heart, and the face of nature of a 
 sudden to change into a strange freshness and life." 
 
 This was the interpreting power of Wordsworth 
 suddenly disclosing to Bryant, not the secrets of 
 nature, but his own powers of perception and in- 
 terpretation. Byrant is in no sense an imitator of 
 Wordsworth, but a comparison of the two poets 
 would be of great interest as showing how individ- 
 ually each pursued the same general poetic end. 
 Wordsworth's Three Years she grew in Sun and 
 Shower and Bryant's Fairest of the Rural Maids 
 offer an admirable opportunity for disclosing the 
 separate treatment of similar subjects. In Bryant's 
 lines, musical and full of a gentle revery, the poet 
 seems to go deeper and deeper into the forest, al- 
 most forgetful of the " fairest of the rural maids ; " 
 in Wordsworth's lines, with what simple yet pro- 
 i This was written in 1833. 
 
286 BRYANT. 
 
 found feeling the poet, after delicately disclosing 
 the interchange of nature and human life, retires 
 into those depths of human sympathy where nature 
 must forever remain as a remote shadow. 
 
 Bryant translated many short poems from the 
 Spanish, but his largest literary undertaking was 
 the translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey of 
 Homer. He brought to this task great requisite 
 powers, and if there is any failure it is in the ab- 
 sence of Homer's lightness and rapidity, qualities 
 which the elasticity of the Greek language es- 
 pecially favored. 
 
 A pleasant touch of simple humor appeared in 
 some of his social addresses, and occasionally is 
 found in his poems, as in Robert of Lincoln, Sug- 
 gestions of personal experience will be read in such 
 poems as The Cloud on the Way, The Life that Ls. 
 and in the half-autobiographic poem, A Lifetime. 
 
 The two poems which follow are the longest of 
 Bryant's original poems, and while as fairy tales 
 distinct from the usual subjects which he has taken, 
 present many of his characteristics. 
 
SELLA. 
 
 [Sella is the name given by the Vulgate to one 
 of the wives of Lamech, mentioned in the fourth 
 chapter of the Book of Genesis, and called Zillah 
 in the common English version of the Bible. The 
 meaning of the name is Shadow, and in choosing it 
 the poet seems to have had no reference to the 
 Biblical fact, but to the significance of the name, 
 since he was telling of a creature who had the form 
 without the substance of human kind. The story 
 naturally suggests Fouque's Undine, and is in 
 some respects a complement to that lovely romance. 
 Undine is a water-nymph without a soul, who gains 
 one only by marrying a human being, and in mar- 
 rying tastes of the sorrows of life. Sella is of the 
 •human race, gifted with a soul, but having a long- 
 ing for life among the water-nymphs. That life 
 withdraws her from the troubles and cares of the 
 world, and she loses more and more her interest in 
 them ; when at last she is rudely cut off from 
 sharing in the water-nymphs' life, is awakened as it 
 were from a dream of beauty, she returns to the 
 world after a brief struggle, mingles with it, and 
 makes the knowledge gained among the water- 
 »ymphs minister to the needs of men. 
 
 The story must not be probed too ingeniously 
 
288 BRYANT. 
 
 for its moral ; it is an exquisite fairy tale, but like 
 many of such tales it involves a gentle parable, 
 which has been hinted at above. If a more ex- 
 plicit interpretation is desired, we may say that the 
 passion for ideals, gradually withdrawing one from 
 human sympathy, is made finally to ennoble and 
 lift real life. The poet has not localized the poem 
 nor given it a specific time, but left himself and the 
 reader free by using the large terms of nature and 
 human life, and referring the action to the early, 
 formative period of the world. Observe Bryant's 
 delicate and accurate transcriptions of faint charac- 
 teristics of nature, as in lines 8, 12, 30, 35, 41, 215, 
 238, 389.] 
 
 Hear now a legend of the days of old — 
 The days when there were goodly marvels yet, 
 When man to man gave willing faith, and loved 
 A tale the better that 't was wild and strange. 
 5 Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brook 
 Scudding along a narrow channel, paved 
 With green and yellow pebbles; yet full clear 
 Its waters were, and colorless and cool, 
 As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oft 
 
 10 Stood at the open window, leaning out, 
 And listening to the sound the water made, 
 A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same, 
 And not the same ; and oft, as spring came on, 
 She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank, 
 
 15 To place within her bower, and when the herbs 
 Of summer drooped beneath the midday sun, 
 
 11. Observe the various suggestions in the early lines of tha 
 I oem of Sella's sympathy with water life. 
 
SELLA. 289 
 
 She sat within the shade of a great rock, 
 Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song. 
 
 Ripe were the maiden's years ; her stature 
 showed 
 
 20 Womanly beauty, and her clear, calm eye 
 Was bright with venturous spirit, yet her face 
 Was passionless, like those by sculptor graved 
 For niches in a temple. Lovers oft 
 Had wooed her, but she only laughed at love, 
 
 25 And wondered at the silly things they said. 
 'T was her delight to wander where wild vines 
 O'erhang the river's brim, to climb the path 
 Of woodland streamlet to its mountain springs, 
 To sit by gleaming wells and mark below 
 
 30 The image of the rushes on its edge, 
 
 And, deep beyond, the trailing clowds that slid 
 Across the fair blue space. No little fount 
 Stole forth from hanging rock, or in the side 
 Of hollow dell, or under roots of oak, 
 
 35 No rill came trickling, with a stripe of green, 
 Down the bare hill, that to this maiden's eyes 
 Was not familiar. Often did the banks 
 Of river or of sylvan lakelet hear 
 The dip of oars with which the maiden rowed 
 
 40 Her shallop, pushing ever from the prow 
 
 A crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore. 
 
 Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought, 
 Within herself : " I would I were like them ; 
 For then I might go forth alone, to trace 
 
 45 The mighty rivers downward to the sea, 
 
 And upward to the brooks that, through the year, 
 Prattle to the cool valleys. I would know 
 
 31. The clouds which she sees deep beyond are of course the 
 reflection of the clouds passing over the well, as it is not the 
 rushes but the image of the rushes which she sees in the water. 
 19 
 
290 BRYANT. 
 
 What races drink their waters ; how their chiefs 
 Bear rule, and how men worship there, and how 
 
 50 They build, and to what quaint device they frame, 
 Where sea and river meet, their stately ships; 
 What flowers are in their gardens, and what trees 
 Bear fruit within their orchards ; in what garb 
 Their bowmen meet on holidays, and how 
 
 55 Their maidens bind the waist and braid the hair. 
 Here, on these hills, my father's house o'erlooks 
 Broad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but 
 
 there 
 I hear they sprinkle the great plains with corn 
 And watch its springing up, and when the green 
 
 60 Is changed to gold, they cut the stems and bring 
 The harvest in, and give the nations bread. 
 And there'they hew the quarry into shafts, 
 And pile up glorious temples from the rock, 
 And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men. 
 
 65 All this I pine to see, and would have seen, 
 But that I am a woman, long ago.'* 
 
 Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream, 
 Until, at length, one morn in early spring, 
 When all the glistening fields lay white with frost, 
 
 70 She came half breathless where her mother sat : 
 " See, mother dear," said she, M what I have 
 
 found, 
 Upon our rivulet's bank; two slippers, white 
 As the mid-winter snow, and spangled o'er 
 With twinkling points, like stars, and on the edge 
 
 72. The reader will recall instances of the magical or trans- 
 forming character of slippers and the like : Mercury with his 
 winged sandals, Cinderella with her glass slippers, the seven 
 teagued boots, Puss in boots. A covering for the head is cob 
 qected with the power of command and the power of invisibil 
 rty: a covering for the foot with magical power of motion. 
 
SELLA. 291 
 
 75 My name is wrought in silver ; read, I pray, 
 Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven, 
 Gave at my birth ; and sure, they fit my feet! " 
 " A dainty pair/' the prudent matron said, 
 " But thine they are not. We must lay them by 
 
 80 For those whose careless hands have left them 
 here; 
 Or haply they were placed beside the brook 
 To be a snare. I cannot see thy name 
 Upon the border, — only characters 
 Of mystic look and dim are there, like signs 
 
 85 Of some strange art ; nay, daughter, wear them 
 
 not." 
 
 Then Sella hung the slippers in the porch 
 
 Of that broad rustic lodge, and all who passed, 
 
 Admired their fair contexture, but none knew 
 
 Who left them by the brook. And now, at length, 
 
 jo May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone, 
 And on bright streams and into deep wells shone 
 The high, mid-summer sun. One day, at noon, 
 Sella was missed from the accustomed meal. 
 They sought her in her favorite haunts, they looked 
 
 )5 By the great rock, and far along the stream, 
 And shouted in the sounding woods her name. 
 Night came and forth the sorrowing household 
 
 went 
 With torches over the wide pasture grounds 
 To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell, 
 1 jo And solitary valley far away. 
 
 The morning came, and Sella was not found. 
 
 82. In the mother's inability to read Sella's name on the slip- 
 per is suggested that unimaginative nature which is so often rep- 
 •esented in fairy tales for a foil to the imagination. Hawthorne 
 has used this open-eyed blindness with excellent effect in his 
 %tory of the Snovj Image. 
 
292 BRYANT. 
 
 The sun climbed high ; they sought her still ; the 
 
 noon, 
 The hot and silent noon, heard Sella's name, 
 Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastes 
 
 105 O'er which the eagle hovered. As the sun 
 
 Stooped toward the amber west to bring the close 
 Of that sad second day, and, with red eyes, 
 The mother sat within her home alone, 
 Sella was at her side. A shriek of joy 
 
 1 ic Broke the sad silence ; glad, warm tears were shed, 
 And words of gladness uttered. M Oh, forgive," 
 The maiden said, " that I could ever forget 
 Thy wishes for a moment. I just tried 
 The slippers on, amazed to see them shaped 
 
 115 So fairly to my feet, when, all at once, 
 I felt my steps upborne and hurried on 
 Almost as if with wings. A strange delight, 
 Blent with a thrill of fear, o'ermastered me, 
 And, ere I knew, my plashing steps were set 
 
 120 Within the rivulet's pebbly bed, and I 
 
 Was rushing down the current. By my side 
 Tripped one as beautiful as ever looked 
 From white clouds in a dream ; and, as we ran, 
 She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed 
 
 125 Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool, 
 And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock, 
 And glided between shady meadow banks. 
 The streamlet, broadening as we went, became 
 A swelling river, and we shot along 
 
 30 By stately towns, and under leaning masts 
 Of gallant barks, nor lingered by the shore 
 Of blooming gardens; onward, onward still, 
 The same strong impulse bore me till, at last, 
 We entered the great deep, and passed below 
 
 »35 His billows, into boundless spaces, lit 
 
SELLA. 293 
 
 With a green sunshine. Here were mighty groves 
 Far down the ocean valleys, and between 
 Lay what might seem fair meadows, softly tinged 
 With orange and with crimson. Here arose 
 
 C4o Tall stems, that, rooted in the depths below, 
 Swung idly with the motions of the sea; 
 And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screen 
 The creatures of the deep made haunt. My 
 
 friend 
 Named the strange growths, the pretty coralline, 
 
 145 The dulse with crimson leaves, and streaming far, 
 Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spread 
 Its broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers be- 
 neath, 
 And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands, 
 Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked in 
 
 150 At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls 
 Lay in blue twilight. As we moved along, 
 The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds, 
 Passed by us, reverently they passed us by, 
 Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine, 
 
 155 Huge whales, that drew the waters after them, 
 A torrent stream, and hideous hammer- sharks, 
 Chasing their prey; I shuddered as they came; 
 Gently they turned aside and gave us room." 
 Hereat broke in the mother, " Sella, dear, 
 
 160 This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream. ,, 
 
 11 Nay, mother, nay ; behold this sea-green 
 scarf, 
 Woven of such threads as never human hand 
 Twined from the distaff. She who led my way 
 Through the great waters, bade me wear it home. 
 
 165 A token that my tale is true. * And keep,' 
 
 She said, ' the slippers thou hast found, for thou, 
 When shod with them, shalt be like one of us, 
 
294 BRYANT. 
 
 With power to walk'at will the ocean floor, 
 Among its monstrous creatures unafraid, 
 
 170 And feel no longing for the air of heaven 
 
 To fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red blood 
 Along thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hours 
 In dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth, 
 To look into the mysteries of the abyss 
 
 i 75 Where never plummet reached. And thou shalt 
 sleep 
 Thy weariness away on downy banks 
 Of sea-moss, where the pulses of the tide 
 Shall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt float 
 On the soft currents that go forth and wind 
 
 180 From isle to isle, and wander through the sea. 
 14 So spake my fellow- voyager, her words 
 Sounding like wavelets on a summer shore, 
 And then we stopped beside a hanging rock 
 With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot, 
 
 185 Where three fair creatures like herself were set 
 At their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks, 
 Culled from the ocean's meadows, and the sweet 
 Midrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruits, 
 Dropped from the trees that edge the southern 
 isles, 
 
 190 And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayea 
 That I would share their meal, and I partook 
 With eager appetite, for long had been 
 My journey, and I left the spot refreshed. 
 " And then we wandered off amid the groves 
 
 95 Of coral loftier than the growths of earth ; 
 The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs, 
 So huge, so high, toward heaven, nor overhangs 
 Alleys and bowers so dim. We moved between 
 Pinnacles of black rock, which, from beneath, 
 
 goo Molten by inner fires, so said my guide, 
 
SELLA. 295 
 
 Gushed long ago into the hissing brine, 
 
 That quenched and hardened them, and now they 
 
 stand 
 Motionless in the currents of the sea 
 That part and flow around them. As we went, 
 
 to 5 We looked into the hollows of the abyss, 
 To which the never-resting waters sweep 
 The skeletons of sharks, the long white spines 
 Of narwhale and of dolphin, bones of men 
 Shipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks. 
 
 210 Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on. 
 " But beautiful the fountains of the sea 
 Sprang upward from its bed ; the silvery jets 
 Shot branching far into the azure brine, 
 And where they mingled with it, the great deep 
 
 215 Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air 
 Above a furnace. So we wandered through 
 The mighty world of waters, till at length 
 I wearied of its wonders, and my heart 
 Began to yearn for my dear mountain home. 
 
 220 I prayed my gentle guide to lead me back 
 
 To the upper air. ■ A glorious realm,' I said, 
 1 Is this thou openest to me ; but I stray 
 Bewildered in its vastness ; these strange sights 
 And this strange light oppress me. I must see 
 
 225 The faces that I love, or I shall die.' 
 
 11 She took my hand, and, darting through the 
 waves, 
 Brought me to where the stream, by which we 
 
 came, 
 Rushed into the main ocean. Then began 
 
 224. How very often in fairy tales the human being has but 
 to exercise the will to attain or to renounce the fairy power ! It 
 is only when one is under a spell, in. the classic fairy tales, thai 
 the will is not recognized as the supreme authority. 
 
296 BRYANT. 
 
 A slower journey upward. Wearily 
 
 230 We breasted the strong current, climbing through 
 The rapids tossing high their foam. The night 
 Came down, and, in the clear depth of a pool, 
 Edged with o'erhanging rock, we took our rest 
 Till morning; and I slept, and dreamed of home 
 
 235 And thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed; 
 The green fields of this upper world, the herds 
 That grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds, 
 The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves, 
 Lifting and lowering to the restless wind 
 
 240 Their branches. As I woke I saw them all 
 
 From the clear stream; yet strangely was my heart 
 Parted between the watery world and this, 
 And as we journeyed upward, oft I thought 
 Of marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned, 
 
 245 And lingered, till I thought of thee again; 
 And then again I turned and clambered up 
 The rivulet's murmuring path, until we came 
 Beside this cottage door. There tenderly 
 My fair conductor kissed me, and I saw 
 
 250 Her face no more. I took the slippers off. 
 Oh ! with what deep delight my lungs drew in 
 The air of heaven again, and with what joy 
 I felt my blood bound with its former glow ; 
 And now I never leave thy side again." 
 
 2^5 So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tears 
 Standing in her mild eyes, and in the porch 
 Replaced the slippers. Autumn came and went; 
 The winter passed; another summer warmed 
 The quiet pools ; another autumn tinged 
 
 260 The grape with red, yet while it hung unplucked, 
 
 245. The humanizing of the character of Sella is effected by 
 tuch touches as this. 
 
SELLA. 297 
 
 The mother ere her time was carried forth 
 To sleep among the solitary hills. 
 
 A long still sadness settled on that home 
 Among the mountains. The stern father there 
 
 265 Wept with his children, and grew soft of heart, 
 And Sella, and the brothers twain, and one 
 Younger than they, a sister fair and shy, 
 Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round 
 
 it set 
 Shrubs that all winter held their lively green. 
 
 270 Time passed ; the grief with which their hearts 
 were wrung 
 Waned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now, 
 Was often absent from the patriarch's board ; 
 The slippers hung no longer in the porch ; 
 And sometimes after summer nights her couch 
 
 275 Was found unpressed at dawn, and well they 
 knew 
 That she was wandering with the race who make 
 Their dwelling in the waters. Oft her looks 
 Fixed on blank space, and oft the ill-suited word 
 Told that her thoughts were far away. In vain 
 
 280 Her brothers reasoned with her tenderly. 
 
 " Oh leave not thus thy kindred;'' so they 
 
 prayed : 
 " Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birth 
 Is in her grave, oh go not hence, to seek 
 Companions in that strange cold realm below, 
 
 285 For which God made not us nor thee, but stay 
 To be the grace and glory of our home." 
 She looked at them with those mild eyes and 
 
 wept, 
 But said no word in answer, nor refrained 
 From those mysterious wanderings that filled 
 
 290 Their loving hearts with a perpetual pain. 
 
298 BRYANT. 
 
 And now the younger sister, fair and shy, 
 Had grown to early womanhood, and one 
 Who loved her well had wooed her for his bride, 
 And she had named the wedding day. The herd 
 
 295 Had given its fatlings for the marriage feast ; 
 The roadside garden and the secret glen 
 Were rifled of their sweetest flowers to twine 
 The door posts, and to lie among the locks 
 Of maids, the wedding guests; and from the 
 boughs 
 
 300 Of mountain orchards had the fairest fruit 
 Been plucked to glisten in the canisters. 
 
 Then, trooping over hill and valley, came 
 Matron and maid, grave men and smiling youths, 
 Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight. 
 
 305 In costumes of that simpler age they came, 
 
 That gave the limbs large play, and wrapt the 
 
 form 
 In easy folds, yet bright with glowing hues 
 As suited holidays. All hastened on 
 To that glad bridal. There already stood 
 
 310 The priest prepared to say the spousal rite, 
 And there the harpers in due order sat, 
 And there the singers. Sella, midst them all, 
 Moved strangely and serenely beautiful, 
 With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and 
 cheek 
 
 315 Colorless as the lily of the lakes, 
 
 Yet moulded to such shape as artists give 
 To beings of immortal youth. Her hands 
 Had decked her sister for the bridal hour 
 With chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate 
 threads 
 
 520 Vied with the spider's spinning. There she stood 
 With such a gentle pleasure in her looks 
 
SELLA. 299 
 
 As- might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyes 
 Gracing a bridal of the race whose flocks 
 Were pastured on the borders of her stream. 
 
 325 She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the 
 smile 
 Was soon to pass away. That very morn 
 The elder of the brothers, as he stood 
 Upon the hillside, had beheld the maid, 
 Emerging from the channel of the brook, 
 
 330 With three fresh water lilies in her hand, 
 Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleft 
 Of hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs, 
 Bestow the spangled slippers. None before 
 Had known where Sella hid them. Then she laid 
 
 335 The light brown tresses smooth, and in them 
 twined 
 The lily buds, and hastily drew forth 
 And threw across her shoulders a light robe 
 Wrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps 
 Ran toward the lodge. The youth beheld and 
 marked 
 
 340 The spot and slowly followed from afar. 
 
 Now had the marriage rite been said ; the bride 
 Stood in the blush tnat iroin her burning cheek 
 Glowed down the alabaster neck, as morn 
 Crimsons the pearly heaven halfway to the west. 
 
 345 At once the harpers struck their chords ; a gush 
 Of music broke upon the air ; the youths 
 All started to the dance. Among them moved 
 The queenly Sella with a grace that seemed 
 Caught from the swaying of the summer sea. 
 
 322. The gentle turning-point of the poem. For a momecfc 
 the Sella of her dreams stands before us; the idealizing of the 
 human creature has been carried to its finest limit, and is ar- 
 rested now just short of the disappearance of the human soul. 
 
300 BRYANT. 
 
 350 The young drew forth the elders to the dance, 
 Who joined it half abashed, but when they felt 
 The joyous music tingling in their veins, 
 They called for quaint old measures, which they 
 trod 
 t As gayly as in youth, and far abroad 
 355 Came through the open windows cheerful shouts 
 And bursts of laughter. They who heard the 
 
 sound 
 Upon the mountain footpaths paused and said, 
 " A merry wedding." Lovers stole away 
 That sunny afternoon to bowers that edged 
 360 The garden walks, and what was whispered there 
 The lovers of these later times can guess. 
 
 Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry din 
 Was loudest, stole to where the slippers lay, 
 And took them thence, and followed down the brook 
 365 To where a little rapid rushed between 
 
 Its borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in. 
 The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung up 
 Its small bright waves like hands, and seemed to 
 
 take 
 The prize with eagerness and draw it down. 
 370 They, ^gleaming through the waters as they went, 
 And striking with light sound the shining stones, 
 Slid down the stream. The brothers looked and 
 
 watched 
 And listened with full beating hearts, till now 
 The sight and sound had passed, and silently 
 575 And half repentant hastened to the lodge. 
 The sun was near his set; the music rang 
 Within the dwelling still, but the mirth waned; 
 For groups of guests were sauntering toward their 
 
 homes 
 Across the fields, and far on hillside paths, 
 
SELLA. 301 
 
 380 Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sella grew 
 Weary of the long merriment ; she thought 
 Of her still haunts beneath the soundless sea, 
 And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleft 
 Where she had laid the slippers. They were gone. 
 
 385 She searched the brookside near, yet found them 
 not. 
 Then her heart sank within her, and she ran 
 WikLy from place to place, and once again 
 She searched the secret cleft, and next she stooped 
 And with spread palms felt carefully beneath 
 
 390 The tufted herbs and bushes, and again, 
 And yet again she searched the rocky cleft. 
 " Who could have taken them? " That question 
 
 cleared 
 The mystery. She remembered suddenly 
 That when the dance was in its gayest whirl, 
 
 395 Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length, 
 They reappeared, the elder joined the sports 
 With shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eye 
 The younger shrank in silence. " Now, I know ' 
 The guilty ones,'' she said, and left the spot, 
 
 430 And stood before the youths with such a look 
 Of anguish and reproach that well they knew 
 Her thought, and almost wished the deed undone. 
 Frankly they owned the charge : ' ' And pardon 
 us ; 
 We did it all in love ; we could not bear 
 
 f05 That the cold world of waters and the strange 
 Beings that dwell within it should beguile 
 Our sister from us." Then they told her all ; 
 How they had seen her stealthily bestow 
 The slippers in the cleft, and how by stealth 
 
 410 They took them thence and bore them down the 
 brook, 
 
302 BRYANT. 
 
 And dropped them in, and how the eager waves 
 Gathered and drew them down: but at that word 
 The maiden shrieked — a broken-hearted shriek — 
 And all who heard it shuddered and turned pale 
 
 415 At the despairing cry, and " They are gone," 
 She said, ' ' gone — gone forever. Cruel ones 1 
 'T is you who shut me out eternally 
 From that serener world which I had learned 
 To love so well. Why took ye not my life ? 
 
 420 Ye cannot know what ye have done. ,, She spake 
 And hurried to her chamber, and the guests 
 Who yet had lingered silently withdrew. 
 
 The brothers followed to the maiden's bower, 
 But with a calm demeanor, as they came, 
 
 425 She met them at the door. " The wrong is great," 
 She said, u that ye have done me, but no power 
 Have ye to make it less, nor yet to soothe 
 My sorrow ; I shall bear it as T may, 
 The better for the hours that I have passed 
 
 430 In the calm region of the middle sea. 
 
 Go, then. I need you not." They, overawed, 
 Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her 
 
 tears 
 Broke forth a flood, as when the August cloud, 
 Darkening beside the mountain, suddenly 
 
 435 Melts into streams of rain. That weary night 
 
 She paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked, 
 1 ' O peaceful region of the middle sea ! 
 
 azure bowers and grots, in which I loved 
 To roam and rest I Am I to long for you, 
 
 4. j.o And think how strangely beautiful ye are, 
 Yet never see you more ? And dearer yet, 
 Ye gentle ones in whose sweet company 
 
 1 trod the shelly pavements of the deep, 
 
 And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyes 
 
SELLA. 303 
 
 445 Looking the tenderest love, and voices soft 
 As ripple of light waves along the shore, 
 Uttering the tenderest words ! Oh I ne'er again 
 Shall I, in your mild aspects, read the peace 
 That dwells within, and vainly shall I pine 
 
 450 To hear your sweet low voices. Haply now 
 Ye miss me in your deep-sea home, and think 
 Of me with pity, as of one condemned 
 To haunt this upper world, with its harsh sounds 
 And glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts, 
 
 455 Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes, 
 And all its feverish passions, till I die." 
 
 So mourned she the long night, and when the 
 morn 
 Brightened the mountains, from her lattice looked 
 The maiden on a world that was to her 
 
 460 A desolate and dreary waste. That day 
 
 She passed in wandering by the brook that oft 
 Had been her pathway to the sea, and still 
 Seemed, with its cheerful murmur, to invite 
 Her footsteps thither. u Well may'st thou re- 
 joice, 
 
 465 Fortunate stream! " she said, u and dance along 
 Thy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain 
 Of music, for thou journeyest toward the deep, 
 To which I shall return no more." The night 
 Brought her to her lone chamber, and she knelt 
 
 470 And prayed, with many tears, to Him whose hand 
 Touches the wounded heart and it is healed. 
 With prayer there came new thoughts and new 
 
 desires. 
 She asked for patience and a deeper love 
 For those with whom her lot was henceforth cast, 
 
 475 And that in acts of mercy she might lose 
 
 The sense of her own sorrow. When she rose 
 
304 BRYANT. 
 
 A weight was lifted from her heart. She sought 
 Her couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep. 
 At morn she woke to a new life. Her days 
 
 480 Henceforth were given to quiet tasks of good 
 
 In the great world. Men hearkened to her words, 
 And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed, 
 And saw how beautiful the law of love 
 Can make the cares and toils of daily life. 
 
 4.85 Still did she love to haunt the springs and 
 brooks, 
 As in her cheerful childhood, and she taught 
 The skill to pierce the soil and meet the veins 
 Of clear cold water winding underneath, 
 And call them forth to daylight. From afar 
 
 490 She bade men bring the rivers on long rows 
 Of pillared arches to the sultry town, 
 And on the hot air of the summer fling 
 The spray of dashing fountains. To relieve 
 Their weary hands, she showed them how to tame 
 
 495 The rushing stream, and make him drive the 
 wheel 
 That whirls the humming millstone and that 
 
 wields 
 The ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud, 
 That drench the hillside in the time of rains, 
 Were gathered at her bidding into pools, 
 
 500 And in the months of drought led forth again, 
 In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales, 
 Till the sky darkened with returning showers. 
 So passed her life, a long and blameless life, 
 And far and near her name was named with love 
 
 479. In the new life to which Sella awakes, one notes that it 
 is the old world in which she had lived endowed now with those 
 gifts which her ripened soul brought from the ideal world in 
 which she had hoped to lose herself. 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 305 
 
 505 And reverence. Still she kept, as age came on, 
 Her stately presence ; still her eyes looked forth 
 From under their calm brows as brightly clear 
 As the transparent wells by which she sat 
 So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair 
 
 510 Un wrinkled features, though her locks were white. 
 A hundred times had summer since her birth 
 Opened the water lily on the lakes, 
 So old traditions tell, before she died. 
 A hundred cities mourned her, and her death 
 
 515 Saddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook, 
 That bickering ran beside the cottage door 
 Where she was born, they reared her monument. 
 Ere long the current parted and flowed round 
 The marble base, forming a little isle, 
 
 520 And there the flowers that love the running stream, 
 Iris and orchis, and the cardinal flower, 
 Crowded and hung caressingly around 
 The stone engraved with Sella's honored name. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 
 
 [In this tender fancy Bryant has treated the per- 
 sonality of the snow with a kinder, more sympa- 
 thetic touch than poets have been wont to give it. 
 With many the cruelty of cold or its treacherous 
 nature is most significant. Hans Christian Ander- 
 sen, for example, in the story of The Ice Maiden 
 lias taken a similar theme, but has emphasized the 
 seductive treachery of the Spirit of Cold. Here 
 20 
 
306 BRYANT. 
 
 Bryant has given the true fairy, innocent of evil 
 purpose, yet inflicting grievous wrong through its 
 nature ; sorrowing over the dead Eva, but without 
 the remorse of human beings. The time of the 
 story is placed in legendary antiquity by the ex- 
 clusion of historic times in lines 35-41, and the 
 antiquity is still more positively affirmed by the 
 lines at the close accounting for our not now seeing 
 the Little People of the Snow. The children had 
 asked for a fairy tale, and it is made more real 
 by being placed at so ethereal a distance.] 
 
 Alice. One of your old world stories, Uncle 
 John, 
 Such as you tell us by the winter fire, 
 Till we all wonder it has grown so late. 
 
 Uncle John* The story of the witch that ground 
 to death 
 5 Two children in her mill, or will you have 
 The tale of Goody Cutpurse? 
 
 Alice. Nay now, nay; 
 
 Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, 
 Too childish even for little Willy here, 
 And I am older, two good years, than he; 
 10 No, let us have a tale of elves that ride 
 
 By night with jingling reins, or gnomes of the 
 
 mine, 
 Or water-fairies, such as you know how 
 To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink, 
 
 6. Goody Cut-purse, or Moll Cut-purse, was a famous high 
 way woman of Shakspere's time who robbed people as aud» 
 ciously %=» did Jack Sheppard. 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNO W. 307 
 
 And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 
 Lays down her knitting. 
 
 15 Uncle John. Listen to me, then. 
 
 'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 
 And long before the great oak at our door 
 Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side 
 Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt 
 
 20 Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, 
 
 A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren 
 Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, 
 Flowers opened earliest ; but, when winter came, 
 That little brook was fringed with other flowers, — 
 
 25 White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that 
 grew 
 In clear November nights. And, later still, 
 That mountain glen was filled with drifted snows 
 From side to side, that one might walk across, 
 While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook 
 
 30 Sang to itself, and leapt and trotted on 
 Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. 
 Alice. A mountain's side, you said ; the Alps, 
 perhaps, 
 Or our own Alleghanies. 
 
 Uncle John. Not so fast, 
 
 My young geographer, for then the Alps, 
 
 35 With their broad pastures, haply were untrod 
 Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice 
 Had sounded in the woods that overhang 
 Our Alleghany's streams. I think it was 
 Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 
 
 40 Or where the rivulets of Ararat 
 
 Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose 
 So high, that, on its top, the winter snow 
 Was never melted, and the cottagers 
 Among the summer blossoms, far below, 
 
 45 Saw its white peaks in August from their door. 
 
308 BRYANT. 
 
 One little maiden, in that cottage home, 
 Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, 
 Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, 
 Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean waves, 
 50 And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, 
 As Alice does. 
 Alice. Or Willy, quite as oft. 
 
 Uncle John. But you are older, Alice, two good 
 years, 
 And should be wiser. Eva was the name 
 Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. 
 55 Now you must know that, in those early times, 
 When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop 
 Of childlike forms from that cold mountain top ; 
 With trailing garments through the air they came, 
 Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw 
 60 Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 
 
 And edged the brook with glistening parapets, 
 And.built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, 
 *And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence, 
 They shook, from their full laps, the soft, light 
 snow, 
 65 And buried the great earth, as autumn winds 
 Bury the forest floor in heaps of leaves. 
 
 A beautiful race were they, with baby brows, 
 And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound 
 Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked 
 vo With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight 
 It was, when, crowding round the traveller, 
 They smote him with their heaviest snow flakes, 
 
 flung 
 Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks, 
 And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, 
 75 Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and 
 laughed 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNO W. 309 
 
 Their slender laugh to see him wink and grin 
 And make grim faces as he floundered on. 
 
 But, when the spring came on, what terror 
 reigned 
 Among these Little People of the Snow ! 
 80 To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire, 
 And the soft south wind was the wind of death. 
 Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 
 Upon their childish faces, to the north, 
 Or scampered upward to the mountain's top, 
 85 And there defied their enemy, the Spring; 
 Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, 
 And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, 
 And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, 
 Down the steep snow-fields. 
 
 Alice. That, too, must have been 
 
 A merry sight to look at. 
 90 Uncle John, You are right, 
 
 But I must speak of graver matters now. 
 
 Mid-winter was the time, and Eva stood 
 Within the cottage, all prepared to dare 
 The outer cold, with ample furry robe 
 95 Close belted round her waist, and boots of fur, 
 And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand 
 Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. 
 " Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame, 
 " For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, 
 loo Go not upon the snow beyond the spot 
 
 Where the great linden bounds the neighboring 
 field.'' 
 The little maiden promised, and went forth, 
 And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with 
 
 frost 
 Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, 
 05 Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 
 
310 BRYANT. 
 
 She slowly rose, before her, in the way, 
 She saw a little creature lily-cheeked, 
 With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes, 
 That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed 
 Iio Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek. 
 On a smooth bank she sat. 
 
 Alice. She must have been 
 
 One of your Little People of the Snow. 
 
 Uncle John. She was so, and, as Eva now 
 drew near, 
 The tiny creature bounded from her seat; 
 115 M And come,'' she said, "my pretty friend; to- 
 day 
 We will be playmates. I have watched thee long, 
 And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts, 
 And scoop their fair sides into little cells, 
 And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed 
 men, 
 120 Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day, 
 A merry ramble over these bright fields, 
 And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen." 
 
 On went the pair, until they reached the bound 
 Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow, 
 125 Up to the lower branches. " Here we stop," 
 Said Eva, "for my mother has my word 
 That I will go no further than this tree." 
 Then the snow-maiden laughed; " And what is 
 
 this? 
 This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, 
 ¥30 That never harmed ought living? Thou may'st 
 roam 
 For leagues beyond this garden, and return 
 In safety; here the grim wolf never prowls, 
 And here the eagle of our mountain crags 
 Preys not in winter, I will show the way 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 311 
 
 135 And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, 
 Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide." 
 
 By such smooth words was Eva won to break 
 Her promise, and went on with her new friend, 
 Over the glistening snow and down a bank 
 
 140 Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind 
 Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, 
 Curtained an opening. u Look, we enter here." 
 And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, 
 Entered the little pair that hill of snow, 
 
 145 Walking along a passage with white walls, 
 
 And a white vault above where snow-stars shed 
 A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, 
 And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, 
 And talked and tripped along, as, down the way. 
 
 150 Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 
 
 And now the white walls widened, and the vault 
 Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral dome, 
 Such as the Florentine, who bore the name 
 Of Heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since, 
 
 155 Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, 
 The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, 
 In which the Little People of the Snow 
 Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks 
 
 137. The idea of sin is very lightly touched in the poem, and 
 luere is no conscious temptation to evil on the part of the Snow- 
 yiaideri. The absence of a moral sense in the Little People of 
 ihe Snow is very delicately assumed here. It is with fairies 
 that the poet is dealing, and not with diminutive human be- 
 ings. 
 
 146. The star form of the snow-crystal gives a peculiar truth- 
 fulness to the poet's fancy 
 
 154. Michael Angeio, the great Florentine architect, sculptor, 
 dnd painter. 
 
 156. In Bryant's Letters of a Traveller, second series, will be 
 found an account of Burgos Cathedral. 
 
312 BRYANT. 
 
 Upon the mountain's side and in the clouds 
 
 1 60 Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost 
 To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower, 
 The growths of summer. Here the palm up 
 
 reared 
 Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf 
 Of plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge as those 
 
 165 Of Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs, 
 Yet pale and shadowless ; the sturdy oak 
 Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming 
 
 strength, 
 Fast anchored in the glistening bank ; light sprays 
 Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, 
 
 170 Drooped by the winding walks; yet all seemed 
 wrought 
 Of stainless alabaster ; up the trees 
 Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf 
 Colorless as her flowers. " Go softly on," 
 Said the snow-maiden ; " touch not, with thy hand, 
 
 175 The frail creation round thee, and beware 
 
 To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above. 
 How sumptuously these bowers are lighted up 
 With shifting gleams that softly come and go. 
 These are the northern lights, such as thou seest 
 
 180 In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames, 
 That float, with our processions, through the air ; 
 And, here within our winter palaces, 
 Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she told 
 How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, 
 
 185 Swept the light snows into the hollow dell, 
 She and her comrades guided to its place 
 Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, 
 In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, 
 With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow, 
 
 190 Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 313 
 
 In gardens such as these, and, o'er them all, 
 Built the broad roof. * l But thou hast yet to see 
 A fairer sight," she said, and led the way 
 To where a window of pellucid ice 
 
 195 Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path. 
 
 " Look, but thou may'st not enter." Eva looked, 
 And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose high vault 
 Stripes of soft light, ruddy, and delicate green, 
 And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor 
 
 200 And far around, as if the aerial hosts, 
 
 That march on high by night, with beamy spears, 
 And streaming banners, to that place had brought 
 Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 
 And in that hall a joyous multitude 
 
 205 Of those by whom its glistening walls were reared, 
 Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, 
 That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, 
 And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch 
 Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, 
 
 210 As when, in spring, about a chimney top, 
 
 A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, 
 Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again, 
 Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly 
 Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, 
 
 215 Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that 
 looked 
 From under lily brows, and gauzy scarfs 
 Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, 
 Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. 
 And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight 
 
 e23 Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep 
 Of motion as they passed her; — long she gazed, 
 And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled 
 The frosty air, till now the encroaching cold 
 Recalled her to herself. li Too long, too long 
 
314 BRYANT. 
 
 225 I linger here," she said, and then she sprang 
 Into the path, and with a hurried step 
 Followed it upward. Ever by her side 
 Her little guide kept pace. As on they went 
 Eva bemoaned her fault: ** What must they think — 
 
 230 The dear ones in the cottage, while so long, 
 Hour after hour, I stay without? I know 
 That they will seek me far and near, and weep 
 To find me not. How could I, wickedly, 
 Neglect the charge they gave me ? " As she spoke, 
 
 235 The hot tears started to her eyes ; she knelt 
 In the mid path. i ' Father ! forgive this sin ; 
 Forgive myself I cannot " — thus she prayed, 
 And rose and hastened onward. When,, at last, 
 They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed 
 
 240 A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, 
 But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt 
 The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy, 
 And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to 
 
 drift, 
 And danced round Eva, as she labored up 
 
 245 The mounds of snow, " Ah me! I feel my eyes 
 Grow heavy," Eva said; " they swim with sleep; 
 I cannot walk for utter weariness, 
 And I must rest a moment on this bank, 
 But let it not be long." As thus she spoke, 
 
 250 In half-formed words, she sank on the smooth 
 snow, 
 With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe 
 About her limbs, and said," A pleasant spot 
 Is this to slumber in; on such a couch 
 Oft have I slept away the winter night, 
 
 255 And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept, 
 But slept in death; for when the power of frost 
 Locks up the motions of the living frame, 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 315 
 
 The victim passes to the realm of Death 
 Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, 
 
 260 Watching beside her, saw the hues of life 
 
 Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, 
 As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, 
 Till they were white as marble, and the breath 
 Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she noi 
 
 265 At first that this was death. But when she 
 marked 
 How deep the paleness was, how motionless 
 That once lithe form, a fear came over her. 
 She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, 
 And shouted in her ear, but all in vain ; 
 
 270 The life had passed away from those young limbs. 
 Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, 
 Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, 
 Sleepless through all the long December night, 
 Hears when the mournful East begins to blow. 
 
 275 But suddenly was heard the sound of steps, 
 Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers 
 Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw 
 The twain, and hurried toward them. As they 
 
 came, 
 With gentle chidings ready on their lips, 
 
 280 And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the 
 tale 
 Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell 
 Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief 
 And blame were uttered: " Cruel, cruel one, 
 To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, 
 
 285 Who suffered her to wander forth alone 
 
 In this fierce cold." They lifted the dear child, 
 And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs, 
 And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, 
 To make the chilled blood move, and win the 
 breath 
 
316 BRYANT. 
 
 290 Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove. 
 The little maid was dead. In blank despait 
 They stood, and gazed at her who never more 
 Should look on them. " Why die we not with 
 
 her?" 
 They said ; u without her life is bitterness.'' 
 
 295 Now came the funeral day; the simple folk 
 Of all that pastoral region gathered round, 
 To share the sorrow of the cottagers. 
 They carved a way into the mound of snow 
 To the glen's side, and dug a little grave 
 
 300 In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, 
 In long procession from the silent door, 
 Chanted a sad and solemn melody. 
 
 " Lay her away to rest within the ground. 
 Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life 
 
 305 Was spotless as these snows ; for she was reared 
 In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, 
 And all that now our tenderest love can do 
 Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs." 
 
 They paused. A thousand slender voices round, 
 
 310 Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill, 
 Took up the strain, and all the hollow air 
 Seemed mourning for the dead; for, on that day, 
 The Little People of the Snow had come, 
 From mountain peak, and cloud, and icy hall, 
 
 315 To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, 
 
 The funeral train renewed the solemn chant. 
 
 " Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, 
 Whose gentle name was given her. Even so, 
 For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best 
 
 320 For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, 
 And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, 
 As, with submissive tears, we render back 
 The lovely and beloved to Him who gave.'* 
 
LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 317 
 
 They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose. 
 325 From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, 
 And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with 
 
 snow, 
 Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away 
 To silence in the dim- seen distant woods. 
 
 The little grave was closed; the funeral train 
 ^30 Departed; winter wore away ; the spring 
 
 Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet 
 
 tufts, 
 By fond hands planted where the maiden slept. 
 But, after Eva's burial, never more 
 The Little People of the Snow were seen 
 335 By human eye, nor ever human ear 
 
 Heard from their lips articulate speech again; 
 For a decree went forth to cut them off, 
 Forever, from communion with mankind. 
 The winter clouds, along the mountain-side, 
 340 Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair 
 form 
 Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, 
 And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, 
 Where once they made their haunt, was empti- 
 ness. 
 But ever, when the wintry days drew near, 
 345 Around that little grave, in the long night, 
 
 Frost- wreaths were laid, and tufts of silvery rime 
 In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, 
 As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born at Cam- 
 bridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1809. The 
 old house in which he was born, still standing near 
 the colleges, has a historic interest as having been 
 the headquarters of General Artemas Ward, and of 
 the Committee of Safety in the days just before the 
 Revolution. Upon the steps of the house stood 
 President Langdon of Harvard College, tradition 
 says, and prayed for the men who, halting there a 
 few moments, marched forward under Colonel Pres- 
 cott's lead to throw up intrenchments on Bunker 
 Hill on the night of June 16, 1775. Dr. Holmes's 
 father carried forward the traditions of the old 
 house, for he was Rev. Dr. Abiel Holmes whose 
 American Annals was the first careful record of 
 American history, written after the Revolution. 
 
 Born and bred in the midst of historic associa- 
 tions, Holmes had from the first a lively interest in 
 American history and politics, and though pos- 
 sessed of strong humorous gifts, has often turned 
 his song into patriotic channels, while the current 
 of his literary life has been distinctly American. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 319 
 
 He began to write poetry when in college at Cam- 
 bridge, and some of his best known early pieces, 
 like Evening by a Tailor, The Meeting of the Dry- 
 ads, The Spectre Pig, were contributed to the Col- 
 legian, an undergraduate journal, while he was 
 studying law the year after his graduation. At 
 this same time he wrote the well-known poem Old 
 Ironsides, a protest against the proposed breaking 
 up of the frigate Constitution ; the poem was 
 printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, and its in- 
 dignation and fervor carried it through the country 
 and raised such a popular feeling that the ship was 
 saved from an ignominious destruction. Holmes 
 shortly gave up the study of law, went abroad to 
 study medicine and returned to take his degree at 
 Harvard in 1836. At the same time he delivered 
 a poem, Poetry, a Metrical Essay, before the Phi 
 Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, and ever since his 
 profession of medicine and his love of literature 
 have received his united care and thought. In 1838 
 he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Phys- 
 iology at Dartmouth College, but remained there 
 only a year or two, when he returned to Boston, 
 married and practised medicine. In 1847 he was 
 made Park man Professor of Anatomy and Phys- 
 iology in the Medical School of Harvard College, 
 a position which he still holds. 
 
 In 1857, when the Atlantic Monthly was estab- 
 lished, Professor Lowell, who was asked to be editor, 
 sonsented on condition that Dr. Holmes should be 
 4 regular contributor. Dr. Holmes at that time 
 
320 HOLMES. 
 
 was known as the author of a number of poems of 
 grace, life, and wit, and he had published several 
 professional papers and books, but his brilliancy as . 
 a talker gave him a strong local reputation, and 
 Lowell shrewdly guessed that he would bring to 
 the new magazine a singularly fresh and unusual 
 power. He was right, for The Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast-Table beginning in the first number un- 
 questionably insured the Atlantic its early success. 
 The readers of the day had forgotten that Holmes, 
 twenty-five years before, had begun a series with 
 the same title in Buckingham's New England Mag- 
 azine, a periodical of short life, so they did not at 
 first understand why he should begin his first ar- 
 ticle, " I was just going to say, when I was in- 
 terrupted." From that time Dr. Holmes was a 
 frequent contributor to the magazine, and in it ap- 
 peared successively, The Autocrat of the Breakfast- 
 Table, The Professor at the Breakfast- Table, Elsie 
 Venner, The Professor's Story, The Guardian Angel, 
 The Poet at the Breakfast- Table, — prose papers, 
 and stories with occasional insertion of verse ; here 
 also have been printed the many poems which he 
 has so freely and happily written for festivals and 
 public occasions, including the frequent poems at 
 the yearly meetings of his college class. The wit 
 and humor which have made his poetry so well 
 known would never have given him his high rank 
 had they not been associated with an admirable art 
 which makes every word necessary and felicitous, 
 and a generous nature which is quick to seize upon 
 what touches a common life. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER 
 HILL BATTLE. 
 
 AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 
 
 [This poem was first published in 1875, in con- 
 nection with the centenary of the battle of Bunker 
 Hill. The belfry could hardly have been that of 
 Christ Church, since tradition says that General 
 Gage was stationed there watching the battle, and 
 we may make it to be what was known as the new 
 Brick Church, built in 1721, on Hanover, corner of 
 Richmond Street, Boston, rebuilt of stone in 1845, 
 and pulled down at the widening of Hanover Street 
 in 1871. There are many narratives of the battle 
 of Bunker Hill. Frothingham's History of the 
 Siege of Boston is one of the most comprehensive 
 accounts, and has furnished material for many pop- 
 ular narratives. The centennial celebration of the 
 battle called out magazine and newspaper articles, 
 which give the story with little variation. There 
 are not many disputed points in connection with 
 the event, the principal one being the discussion as 
 <o who was the chief officer.] 
 21 
 
322 HOLMES. 
 
 9 T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, 
 
 one remembers 
 All the achings and the quakings of " the times 
 
 that tried men's souls "; 
 When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the 
 
 Rebel story, 
 To you the words are ashes, but to me they 're 
 
 burning coals. 
 
 5 I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April run- 
 ning battle ; 
 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red 
 coats still; 
 
 2. In December, 1776, Thomas Paine, whose Common Sense 
 had so remarkable a popularity as the first homely expression of 
 public opinion on Independence, began issuing a series of tracts 
 called The Crisis, eighteen numbers of which appeared. The 
 familiar words quoted by the grandmother must often have 
 been heard and used by her. They begin the first number of 
 The Crisis: "These are the times that try men's souls: the 
 summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis 
 shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it 
 now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." 
 
 3. The terms Whig and Tory were applied to the two parties 
 in England who represented, respectively, the Whigs political 
 and religious liberty, the Tories royal prerogative and ecclesias- 
 tical authority. The names first came into use in 1679 in the 
 struggles at the close of Charles II.'s reign, and continued in use 
 until a generation or so ago, when they gave place to somewhat 
 corresponding terms of Liberal and Conservative. At the break- 
 ing out of the war for Independence, the Whig* in England 
 opposed the measures taken by the crown in the management 
 of the American colonies, while the Tories supported the crown. 
 The names were naturally applied in America to the patriotic 
 party, who were termed Whigs, and the loyalist party, termed 
 Tories. The Tories in turn called the patriots rebels. 
 
 5. The Lexington and Concord affair of April 19, 1775 
 When Lord Percy's soldiers retreated in a disorderly manne* 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 323 
 
 But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms 
 
 up before me, 
 When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes 
 
 of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the 
 
 first thing gave us warning 
 lo Was the booming of the cannon from the river 
 
 and the shore : 
 " Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, 
 
 what is all this noise and clatter ? 
 Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder 
 
 us once more ? " 
 
 Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst 
 
 of all my quaking, 
 To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began 
 
 to roar: 
 15 She had seen the burning village, and the 
 
 slaughter and the pillage, 
 When the Mohawks killed her father with their 
 
 bullets through his door. 
 
 Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you 
 
 fret and worry any, 
 For I '11 soon come back and tell you whether this 
 
 is work or play ; 
 
 Charlestown, annoyed on the way by the Americans who 
 
 olio wed and accompanied them. 
 
 16. The Mohawks, a formidable part of the Six Nations, were 
 held in great dread, as they were the most cruel and warlike of 
 ill the tribes. In connection with the French they fell upon the 
 frontier settlements during Queen Anne's war, early in the eight- 
 eenth century, and committed terrible deeds, long remembered 
 to New England households. 
 
324 HOLMES. 
 
 There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone 
 a minute " — 
 20 For a minute then I started. I was gone the live- 
 long day. 
 
 No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass 
 grimacing ; 
 
 Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half- 
 way to my heels ; 
 
 God forbid your ever knowing, when there *s blood 
 around her flowing, 
 
 How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet 
 household feels ! 
 
 25 In the street I heard a thumping ; and I knew it 
 
 was the stumping 
 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden 
 
 leg he wore, 
 With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky 
 
 I had found him, 
 So I followed with the others, and the Corporal 
 
 marched before. 
 
 They were making for the steeple, — the old sol- 
 dier and his people ; 
 \o The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the 
 creaking stair, 
 
 Just across the narrow river — Oh, so close it 
 made me shiver ! — 
 
 Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday 
 was bare. 
 
 Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who 
 
 stood behind it, 
 Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the 
 
 stubborn walls were dumb: 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 325 
 
 35 Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild 
 upon each other, 
 And their lips were white with terror as they said, 
 
 THE HOUR HAS COME! 
 
 The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we 
 tasted, 
 
 And our heads were almost splitting with the can- 
 nons' deafening thrill, 
 
 When a figure tall and stately round the rampart 
 strode sedately ; 
 40 It was Prescott, one since told me ; he com- 
 manded on the hill. 
 
 Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw 
 
 his manly figure, 
 With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so 
 
 straight and tall ; 
 Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out 
 
 for pleasure, 
 Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he 
 
 walked around the wall. 
 
 45 At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red- 
 coats' ranks were forming; 
 At noon in marching order they were moving to 
 the piers; 
 
 40. Colonel William Prescott, who commanded the detach- 
 ment which marched from Cambridge June 16, 1775, to fortify 
 Breed's hill, was the grandfather ck William Hickling Prescott, 
 ihe historian. He was in the field during the entire battle of 
 the 17th in command of the redoubt. 
 
 42. Banyan — a flowered morning gown which Prescott is said 
 to have worn during the hot day, a good illustration of the un- 
 
B26 HOLMES. 
 
 How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we 
 looked far down, and listened 
 
 To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted 
 grenadiers ! 
 
 At length the men have started, with a cheer (it 
 
 seemed faint-hearted), 
 jo In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks 
 
 on their backs, 
 And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea r 
 
 fight's slaughter, 
 Round the barges gliding onward blushed like 
 
 blood along their tracks. 
 
 So they crossed to the other border, and again 
 
 they formed in order ; 
 And the boats came back for soldiers, came for 
 
 soldiers, soldiers still: 
 55 The time seemed everlasting to us women faint 
 
 and fasting, — 
 At last they 're moving, marching, marching 
 
 proudly up the hill. 
 
 We can see the bright steel glancing all along the 
 lines advancing — 
 
 Now the front rank fires a volley — they have 
 thrown away their shot; 
 
 For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls 
 above them flying, 
 60 Our people need not hurry; so they wait and an- 
 swer not. 
 
 military appearance of the soldiers engaged. His nonchalant 
 walk upon the parapets is also a historic fact, and was for the 
 encouragement of the troops within the redoubt. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 327 
 
 Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would 
 
 swear sometimes and tipple), — 
 He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old 
 
 French war) before, — 
 Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they ah 
 
 were hearing, — 
 And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty 
 
 belfry floor: — 
 
 6.5 "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King 
 
 George's shilling, 
 But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore a * rebel ' 
 
 falls; 
 You may bang the dir^ and welcome, they 're as 
 
 safe as Dan'l Malcolm 
 Ten foot buneath the gravestone that you 've 
 
 splintered with your balls ! " 
 
 62. Many of the officers as well as men on the American side 
 had become familiarized with service through the old French 
 war, which came to an end in 1763. 
 
 67. Dr. Holmes makes the following note to this line : " The 
 following epitaph is still to be read on a tall gravestone, stand- 
 ing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of 
 the dead in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, one of the three city 
 [Boston] cemeteries which have been desecrated and ruined 
 within my own remembrance : — 
 
 11 Here lies buried in a 
 
 Stone Grave 10 feet deep, 
 
 Capt. Daniel Malcolm Mercht 
 
 Who departed this Life 
 
 October 23, 1769, 
 
 Aged 44 years, 
 
 A true son of Liberty, 
 
 A Friend to the Publick, 
 
 An Enemy to oppression, 
 
 And one of the foremost 
 
 In opposing the Revenue Acts 
 
 On America." 
 
328 HOLMES. 
 
 In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepida- 
 tion 
 70 Of the dread approaching moment, we are well- 
 nigh breathless all ; 
 
 Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety 
 belfry railing, 
 
 We are crowding up against them like the waves 
 against a wall. 
 
 Just a glimpse (the air is clearer) , they are nearer, 
 — nearer, — nearer, 
 
 When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — then a 
 crash — the steeple shakes — 
 75 The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud 
 is rended; 
 
 Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder- 
 cloud it breaks ! 
 
 O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black 
 
 smoke blows over! 
 The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower 
 
 rakes his hay; 
 Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong 
 
 crowd is flying 
 80 Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into 
 
 spray. 
 
 Then we cried, " The troops are routed! they are 
 
 beat — it can't be doubted! 
 God be thanked, the fight is overl" — Ah! the 
 
 grim old soldier's smile! 
 " Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could 
 
 hardly speak, we shook so), — 
 M Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Ark 
 
 they beaten ? " — " Wait a while." 
 
GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 329 
 
 85 O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we 
 
 saw our error: 
 They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven 
 
 them back in vain; 
 And the columns that were scattered, round the 
 
 colors that were tattered, 
 Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted 
 
 breasts again. 
 
 All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of 
 
 Charlestown blazing! 
 90 They have fired the harmless village; in an hour 
 
 it will be down ! 
 The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire 
 
 and brimstone round them, — 
 The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn 
 
 a peaceful town ! 
 
 They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see 
 each massive column 
 
 4s they near the naked earth-mound with the 
 slanting walls so steep. 
 95 Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noise- 
 less haste departed? 
 
 Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they 
 palsied or asleep? 
 
 Now! the walls they 're almost under ! scarce a rod 
 the foes asunder! 
 
 Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earth- 
 work they will swarm! 
 
 But the words have scarce been spoken, when the 
 ominous calm is broken, 
 foo And a bellowing crash has emptied all the ven- 
 geance of the storm! 
 
330 HOLMES. 
 
 So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted back- 
 wards to the water, 
 
 Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened 
 braves of Howe; 
 
 And we shout, " At last they 're done for, it 's 
 their barges they have run for: 
 
 They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's 
 over now ! ' ' 
 
 105 And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough 
 
 old soldier's features, 
 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we 
 
 would ask: 
 " Not sure," he said ; "keep quiet, — once more, 
 
 I guess, they '11 try it — 
 Here 's damnation to the cut-throats ! " then 
 
 he handed me his flask, 
 
 Saying, u Gal, you 're looking shaky ; have a drop 
 of old Jamaiky ; 
 no I'm afeard there '11 be more trouble afore the job 
 is done " ; 
 
 So I took one scorching swallow ; dreadful faint I 
 felt and hollow, 
 
 Standing there from early morning when the fir- 
 ing was begun. 
 
 All through those hours of trial I had watched a 
 
 calm clock dial, 
 As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were 
 
 creeping round to four, 
 * 1 5 When the old man said, ' ' They 're forming with 
 
 their bagonets fixed for storming: 
 
 102. The generals on the British side were Howe, Clinton 
 End Pigot. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 331 
 
 It 's the death-grip that 's a coming, — they will 
 try the works once more." 
 
 With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind 
 them glaring, 
 
 The deadly wall before them, in close array they 
 come; 
 
 Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold 
 uncoiling, — 
 120 Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverber- 
 ating drum! 
 
 Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I tell the 
 
 fearful story, 
 How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea 
 
 breaks over a deck; 
 How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out 
 
 men retreated, 
 With their powder-horns all emptied, like the 
 
 swimmers from a wreck ? 
 
 125 It has all been told and painted; as for me, they 
 
 say I fainted, 
 And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with 
 
 me down the stair: 
 When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening 
 
 lamps were lighted, — 
 On the floor a youth was lying ; his bleeding breast 
 
 was bare. 
 
 And I heard through all the flurry, " Send for 
 Warren! hurry! hurry! 
 
 129. Dr. Joseph Warren, of equal note at the time as a medi- 
 cal man and a patriot. He was a volunteer in the battle, and 
 fell there, the most serious loss on the American side. 
 
332 HOLMES. 
 
 130 Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and he '11 come 
 
 and dress his wound! " 
 Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of 
 
 death and sorrow, 
 How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark 
 
 and bloody ground. 
 
 Who the youth was, what his name was, where the 
 
 place from which he came was, 
 Who had brought him from the battle, and had 
 
 left him at our door, 
 135 He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our 
 
 brave fellows, 
 As the homespun plainly showed us which the 
 
 dying soldier wore. 
 
 For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 
 
 round him crying, — 
 And they said, " Oh, how they '11 miss him! " and, 
 
 " What will his mother do? " 
 Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that 
 
 has been dozing, 
 T40 He faintly murmured, " Mother! " and — I 
 
 saw his eyes were blue. 
 
 — u Why, grandma, how you're winking! " — Ah, 
 my child, it sets me thinking 
 
 Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow 
 lived along ; 
 
 So we came to know each other, and I nursed him 
 like a — mother, 
 
 Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy- 
 cheeked, and strong. 
 
 1 J 5 And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 
 summer weather; 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 333 
 
 i — u Please to tell us what his name was? " — Jusi 
 
 your own, my little dear, — 
 There 's his picture Copley painted : we became 
 
 so well acquainted, 
 That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and 
 
 you children all are here! " 
 
 THE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 [Phillips Academy at Andover, Massachusetts, 
 was founded in 1778, by Judge Samuel Phillips, 
 assisted by two uncles, who also established nearly 
 at the time Phillips Exeter Academy, at Exeter, 
 New Hampshire. The centennial anniversary of 
 the founding of Phillips Academy was celebrated 
 at Andover, in June, 1878, and Dr. Holmes, who 
 had been a boy in the school more than fifty years 
 before, read the following poem.] 
 
 These hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, 
 Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near; 
 With softer gales the opening leaves are fanned, 
 With fairer hues the kindling flowers expand, 
 
 . 47. John Singleton Copley was a portrait painter of celebrity 
 >*ho was born in America in 1737 and painted many famous 
 Dortraits, which hang in private and public galleries in Boston 
 And vicinity chiefly. He lived in England the latter half of his 
 Hfe, dying there in 1815. 
 
334 HOLMES. 
 
 5 The rose-bush reddens with the blush of June, 
 The groves are vocal with their minstrel's tune, 
 The mighty elm, beneath whose arching shade 
 The wandering children of the forest strayed, 
 Greets the glad morning in its bridal dress, 
 
 10 And spreads its arms the gladsome dawn to bless. 
 Is it an idle dream that nature shares 
 Our joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and our cares r 
 Is there no summons, when at morning's call, 
 The sable vestments of the darkness fall ? 
 
 15 Does not meek evening's low-voiced Ave blend 
 With the soft vesper as its notes ascend? 
 Is there no whisper in the perfumed air, 
 When the sweet bosom of the rose is bare? 
 Does not the sunshine call us to rejoice? 
 
 20 Is there no meaning in the storm-cloud's voice ? 
 No silent message when from midnight skies 
 Heaven looks upon us with its myriad eyes? 
 
 Or shift the mirror ; say our dreams diffuse 
 O'er life's pale landscape their celestial hues, 
 
 25 Lend heaven the rainbow it has never known, 
 And robe the earth in glories not its own, 
 Sing their own music in the summer breeze, 
 With fresher foliage clothe the stately trees, 
 Stain the June blossoms with a livelier dye 
 
 30 And spread a bluer azure on the sky, — 
 Blest be the power that works its lawless will 
 And finds the weediest patch an Eden still ; 
 No walls so fair as those our fancies build, — 
 No views so bright as those our visions gild ! 
 
 35 So ran my lines, as pen and paper met, 
 
 The truant goose-quill travelling like Planchette ; 
 
 15. The vesper bells of the church-call to the prayers which 
 begin Ave Maria, Hail, Mary. 
 36. Planchette wa« a toy in the shape of a spherical triangle 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 335 
 
 Too ready servant, whose deceitful ways 
 Full many a slipshod line, alas! betrays; 
 Hence of the rhyming thousand not a few 
 
 4.0 Have builded worse — a great deal — than they 
 knew. 
 What need of idle fancy to adorn 
 Our mother's birthplace on her birthday morn? 
 Hers are the blossoms of eternal spring, 
 From these green boughs her new-fledged birds 
 take wing, 
 
 45 These echoes hear their earliest carols sung, 
 In this old nest the brood is ever young. 
 If some tired wanderer, resting from his flight, 
 Amid the gay young choristers alight, 
 These gather round him, mark his faded plumes 
 
 50 That faintly still the far-off grove perfumes, 
 And listen, wondering if some feeble note 
 Yet lingers, quavering in his weary throat: — 
 I, whose fresh voice yon red-faced temple knew, 
 What tune is left me, fit to sing to you? 
 
 55 Ask not the grandeurs of a labored song, 
 But let my easy couplets slide along ; 
 
 mounted upon three legs, which was greatly in vogue about ten 
 years ago, on account of its supposed property of guiding the 
 hand that rested upon it to write in obedience to another 
 power. 
 40. In playful travesty of Emerson's line in The Problem: — 
 
 " The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 
 And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
 Himself from God h? could not free ; 
 He builded better than he knew ; — 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew." 
 
 50. That the far-off grove still faintly perfumes. 
 r i3. The old Phillips Academy building, now used for a gymna- 
 sium, is of red brick. 
 
336 HOLMES. 
 
 Much I could tell you that you know too well; 
 Much I remember, but I will not tell; 
 Age brings experience; graybeards oft are wise, 
 60 But oh ! how sharp a youngster's ears and eyes ! 
 
 My cheek was bare of adolescent down 
 When first I sought the Academic town: 
 Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road, 
 Big with its filial and parental load ; 
 
 65 The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past, 
 The school-boy's chosen home is reached at last. 
 I see it now, the same unchanging spot, 
 The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, 
 The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 
 
 7c The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door, 
 The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill, 
 The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still ; 
 Two, creased with age, — or what I then called 
 
 age, — 
 Life's volume open at its fiftieth page ; 
 
 75 One a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, sweet 
 
 As the first snow-drop which the sunbeams greet; 
 One the last nursling's; slight she was, and fair, 
 Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn 
 
 hair; 
 Last came the virgin Hymen long had spared, 
 
 80 Whose daily cares the grateful household shared, 
 Strong, patient, humble ; her substantial frame 
 Stretched the chaste draperies I forbear to name. 
 Brave, but with effort, had the school-boy come 
 To the cold comfort of a stranger's home ; 
 
 85 How like a dagger to my sinking heart 
 
 Came the dry summons, " it is time to part; 
 
 71. The rhythm shows the true pronunciation of decorous 
 A.n analogous word is sonorous. See note to p. 18, 1. 99. 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 337 
 
 " Good-by I " " Goo-ood-by ! " one fond maternal 
 
 kiss. ... 
 Homesick as death ! Was ever pang like this ? . . . 
 Too young as yet with willing feet to stray 
 9c From the tame fireside, glad to get away, — 
 Too old to let my watery grief appear, — 
 And what so bitter as a swallowed tear! 
 
 One figure still my vagrant thoughts pursue ; 
 First boy to greet me, Ariel, where are you ? 
 95 Imp of all mischief, heaven alone knows how 
 You learned it all, — are you an angel now, 
 Or tottering gently down the slope of years, 
 Your face grown sober in the vale of tears? 
 Forgive my freedom if you are breathing still ; 
 loo If in a happier world, I know you will. 
 
 You were a school-boy — what beneath the sun 
 So like a monkey ? I was also one. 
 
 Strange, sure enough, to see what curious 
 shoots 
 The nursery raises from the study's roots! 
 105 In those old days the very, very good 
 
 Took up more room — a little — than they should; 
 Something too much one's eyes encountered then 
 Of serious youth and f uneral-visaged men ; 
 The solemn elders saw life's mournful half, — 
 10 Heaven sent this boy, whose mission was to laugh, 
 Drollest of buffos, Nature's odd protest, 
 A catbird squealing in a blackbird's nest. 
 
 Kind, faithful Nature ! While the sour-eyed 
 Scot, — 
 Her cheerful smiles forbidden or forgot, — 
 1 1 5 Talks only of his preacher and his kirk, — 
 
 94. Ariel is a tricksy sprite in Shakspere's The Tempest. The 
 reference is to a son of James Murdock, with whom Holmes 
 lived when he first went to Andover. 
 22 
 
338 HOLMES. 
 
 Hears five-hour sermons for his Sunday work, — 
 Praying and fasting till his meagre face 
 Gains its due length, the genuine sign of grace, — 
 An Ayrshire mother in the land of Knox 
 120 Her embryo poet in his cradle rocks ; — 
 Nature, long shivering in her dim eclipse, 
 Steals in a sunbeam to those baby lips ; 
 So to its home her banished smile returns, 
 And Scotland sweetens with the song of Burns ! 
 
 125 The morning came ; I reached the classic hall ; 
 A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall ; 
 Beneath its hands a printed line I read: 
 Youth is life's seed-time; so the clock-face 
 
 said : 
 Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed, — 
 
 130 Sowed — their wild oats, and reaped as they had 
 sowed. 
 How all comes back ! the upward slanting floor — 
 The masters' thrones that flank the central door — 
 The long, outstretching alleys that divide 
 The rows of desks that stand on either side — 
 
 135 The staring boys, a face to every desk, 
 
 Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque 
 Grave is the Master's look ; his forehead wears 
 Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares 
 Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 
 
 140 His most of all whose kingdom is a school. 
 Supreme he sits; before the awful frown 
 That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down ; 
 Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 
 At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 
 
 137. The master of Dr. Holmes's day was Dr. John Adams. 
 139. An echo of Shakspere's line: — 
 
 '" Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 
 
 King Henry IV. Pt. II. Act III. Scene 1 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 339 
 
 »45 Less stern he seems, who sits in equal state 
 
 On the twin throne and shares the empire's 
 
 weight ; 
 Around his lips the subtle life that plays 
 Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase ; 
 A lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe, 
 
 150 Pleasant when pleased; rough-handled, not so 
 safe; 
 Some tingling memories vaguely I recall, 
 But to forgive him. God forgive us all ! 
 
 One yet remains, whose well-remembered name 
 Pleads in my grateful heart its tender claim ; 
 
 155 His was the charm magnetic, the bright look 
 That sheds its sunshine on the dreariest book ; 
 A loving soul to every task he brought 
 That sweetly mingled with the lore he taught ; 
 Sprung from a saintly race that never could 
 
 160 From youth to age be anything but good, 
 His few brief years in holiest labors spent, 
 Earth lost too soon the treasure heaven had lent. 
 Kindest of teachers, studious to divine 
 Some hint of promise in my earliest line, 
 
 165 These faint and faltering words thou canst not 
 hear 
 Throb from a heart that holds thy memory dear. 
 
 As to the traveller's eye the varied plain 
 Shows through the window of the flying train, . 
 
 145. Rev. Jonathan Clement, D. D., of Norwich, Vt. ; for- 
 merly of Woodstock. He married one of the Phillips family. 
 
 146. There were two master's desks in little inclosures, facing 
 the school and at equal distances from the centre. 
 
 153. Rev. Samuel H. Stearns, at one time pastor of the Old 
 South Church, Boston. He was a brother of President Stearns 
 of Amherst College, and the family, in various members, was 
 very intimately connected with Phillips Academy. 
 
340 HOLMES. 
 
 A mingled landscape, rather felt than seen, 
 
 170 A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green, 
 
 A tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows 
 Through the cleft summit where the cliff once rose. 
 All strangely blended in a hurried gleam, 
 Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hillside, 
 stream, — 
 
 175 So, as we look behind us, life appears, 
 
 Seen through the vista of our bygone years. 
 
 Yet in the dead past's shadow-filled domain, 
 Some vanished shapes the hues of life retain ; 
 Unbidden, oft, before our dreaming eyes 
 
 180 From the vague mists in memory's path they rise. 
 So comes his blooming image to my view, 
 The friend of joyous days when life was new, 
 Hope yet untamed, the blood of youth unchilled, 
 No blank arrear of promise unfulfilled, 
 
 185 Life's flower yet hidden in its sheltering fold, 
 Its pictured canvas yet to be unrolled. 
 His the frank smile I vainly look to greet, 
 His the warm grasp my clasping hand should meet; 
 How would our lips renew their school-boy talk, 
 
 190 Our feet retrace the old familiar walk ! 
 
 For thee no more earth's cheerful morning shines 
 Through the green fringes of thy tented pines; 
 Ah me! is heaven so far thou canst not hear, 
 Or is thy viewless spirit hovering near, 
 
 195 A fair young presence, bright with morning's glow, 
 The fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years ago ? 
 
 Yes, fifty years, with all their circling suns, 
 Behind them all my glance reverted runs ; 
 Where now that time remote, its griefs, its joys, 
 
 &00 Where are its gray-haired men, its bright-haired 
 boys? 
 
 182. Judge Phinehas Barnes, of Portland, Maine. 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 341 
 
 Where is the patriarch time could hardly tire, — 
 The good old, wrinkled, immemorial li squire"? 
 (An honest treasurer, like a black-plumed swan, 
 Not every day our eyes may look upon.) 
 
 205 Where the tough champion who, with Calvin's 
 sword, 
 In wordy conflicts battled for the Lord ? 
 Where the grave scholar, lonely, calm, austere, 
 Whose voice like music charmed the listening ear, 
 Whose light rekindled, like the morning star 
 
 210 Still shines upon us through the gates ajar ? 
 Where the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed man, 
 Whose care-worn face my wondering eyes would 
 
 scan, — 
 His features wasted in the lingering strife 
 With the pale foe that drains the student's life ? 
 
 215 Where my old friend, the scholar, teacher, saint, 
 Whose creed, some hinted, showed a speck of taint, 
 He broached his own opinion, which is not 
 Lightly to be forgiven or forgot ; 
 Some riddle's point, — I scarce remember now, — 
 
 220 Homoi, perhaps, where they said homo — ou. 
 (If the unlettered greatly wish to know 
 Where lies the difference betwixt oi and 0, 
 
 202. Squire Farrar. 
 
 205. Rev. Leonard Woods, D. D., then Professor of Theology 
 in the Seminary. 
 
 207. The reference is to Moses Stuart, who was Professor in 
 the Theological School, and grandfather to Miss Elizabeth 
 Stuart Phelps. 
 
 211. Ebenezer Porter. 
 
 215. James Murdock. 
 
 222. There was an old doctrinal dispute, turning upon a 
 divergence in meaning between two Greek words which dif- 
 fered only by the vowels oi, and 0; two parties sprang up called 
 espectively Homoiousians and Homoousians. 
 
342 HOLMES. 
 
 Those of the curious who have time may search 
 Among the stale conundrums of their church.) — 
 
 225 Beneath his roof his peaceful life I shared, 
 And for his modes of faith I little cared, — 
 I, taught to judge men's dogmas by their deeds. 
 Long ere the days of india-rubber creeds. 
 
 Why should we look one common faith to find, 
 
 23c Where one in every score is color-blind? 
 
 If here on earth they know not red from green, 
 Will they see better into things unseen? 
 
 Once more to time's old grave-yard I return 
 And scrape the moss from memory's pictured 
 urn. 
 
 235 Who, in these days when all things go by steam. 
 Recalls the stage-coach with its four-horse team ? 
 Its sturdy driver, — who remembers him ? 
 Or the old landlord, saturnine and grim, 
 Who left our hill-top for a new abode 
 
 240 And reared his sign-post farther down the road? 
 Still in the waters of the dark Shawshine 
 Do the young bathers splash and think they 're 
 
 clean ? 
 Do pilgrims find their way to Indian Ridge, 
 Or journey onward to the far-off bridge, 
 
 245 And bring to younger ears the story back 
 
 Of the broad stream, the mighty Merrimack ? 
 Are there still truant feet that stray beyond 
 These circling bounds to Pomp's or Haggett's 
 
 pond, 
 Or where the legendary name recalls 
 
 250 The forest's earlier tenant — " Deer-jump Falls ' ' ' 
 
 230. Dr. B. Joy Jeffries in his recent work on Color-Bit n /- 
 less takes lines 229-232 for his motto. 
 
 243. A singular formation like an embankment running for 
 tome distance through the woods near Andover. 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 343 
 
 Yes, every nook these youthful feet explore, 
 Just as our sires and grandsires did of yore; 
 So all life's opening paths, where nature led 
 Their fathers' feet, the children's children tread. 
 
 255 Roll the round century's five score years away, 
 Call from our storied past that earliest day 
 When great Eliphalet (I can see him now, — 
 Big name, big frame, big voice and beetling brow), 
 Then young Eliphalet — ruled the rows of boys 
 
 260 In homespun gray or old world corduroys, — 
 And save for fashion's whims, the benches show 
 The self-same youths, the very boys we know. 
 Time works strange marvels ; since I trod the 
 green 
 And swung the gates, what wonders I have seen' 
 
 265 But come what will, — the sky itself may fall — 
 As things of course the boy accepts them all. 
 The prophet's chariot, drawn by steeds of flame, 
 For daily use our travelling millions claim ; 
 The face we love a sunbeam makes our own ; 
 
 270 No more the surgeon hears the sufferer's groan ; 
 What unwrit histories wrapped in darkness lay 
 Till shovelling Schliemann bared them to the day 
 Your Richelieu says, and says it well, my lord, 
 The pen is (sometimes) mightier than the sword; 
 
 275 Great is the goosequill, say we all; Amen 1 
 Sometimes the spade is mightier than the pen ; 
 It shows where Babel's terraced walls were raised, 
 
 257. Eliphalet Pearson, the first principal of the school, and 
 n later life, professor in the Theological Seminary. 
 
 274. " Beneath the rule of men entirely great 
 
 The pen is mightier than the sword." 
 Edward Bulwer Lytton's drama of Richelieu, Act II. Scene 2. 
 277. Layard between 1845 and 1850 unearthed Nineveh. The 
 'esults of his excavations are published in the very interesting 
 vork, Nineveh and its Remains. 
 
344 HOLMES. 
 
 The slabs that cracked when Nimrod's palace 
 
 blazed, 
 Unearths Mycenae, rediscovers Troy, — 
 
 280 Calmly he listens, that immortal boy. 
 
 A new Prometheus tips our wands with fire, 
 A mightier Orpheus strains the whispering wire, 
 Whose lightning thrills the lazy winds outrun 
 And hold the hours as Joshua stayed the sun, — 
 
 285 So swift, in truth, we hardly find a place 
 
 For those dim fictions known as time and space. 
 Still a new miracle each year supplies, — 
 See at his work the chemist of the skies, 
 Who questions Sirius in his tortured rays 
 
 290 And steals the secret of the solar blaze. 
 
 Hush ! while the window-rattling bugles play 
 The nation's airs a hundred miles away! 
 That wicked phonograph ! hark ! how it swears ! 
 Turn it again and make it say its prayers! 
 
 295 And was it true, then, what the story said 
 Of Oxford's friar and his brazen head ? 
 
 279. MycencB, the ancient royal city of Argos, and Troy, the 
 scene of the Iliad, have been uncovered by "shovelling Schlie- 
 mann." 
 
 281. Prometheus in Greek mythology made men of clay and 
 animated them by means of fire which he stole from heaven. 
 The reference is to the electric light. 
 
 282. Orpheus's skill in music was so wonderful that he could 
 make even trees and rocks follow him. The telephone and 
 phonograph were just coming into common use when the poem 
 was read. 
 
 290. In the spectroscope. 
 
 296. Friar Roger Bacon, who lived in the latter half of the 
 thirteenth century was a scientific investigator, whom popular 
 Ignorance made to be a magician. He was said to have con- 
 structed a brazen head, from which great things were to be ex 
 pected when it should speak, but the exact moment could not 
 »e known. While Bacon and another friar were asleep and an 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOY. 345 
 
 # 
 
 While wondering science stands, herself perplexed 
 At each day's miracle, and asks " what next? " 
 The immortal boy, the coming heir of all, 
 
 300 Springs from his desk to " urge the flying ball, ,, 
 Cleaves with his bending oar the glassy waves, 
 With sinewy arm the dashing current braves, 
 The same bright creature in these haunts of ours 
 That Eton shadowed with her " antique towers." 
 
 305 Boy! Where is he? the long-limbed youth in- 
 quires, 
 Whom his rough chin with manly pride inspires ; 
 Ah, when the ruddy cheek no longer glows, 
 When the bright hair is white as winter snows, 
 When the dim eye has lost its lambent flame, 
 
 310 Sweet to his ear will be his school-boy name! 
 Nor think the difference mighty as it seems 
 Between life's morning and its evening dreams; 
 Fourscore, like twenty, has its tasks and toys; 
 In earth's wide school-house all are girls and boys. 
 
 attendant was keeping watch, the brazen head spoke the words, 
 Time is. The attendant thought that too commonplace a state- 
 ment to make it worth while to wake his master. Time was, 
 Baid the head, and then Time is past, and with that fell to the 
 ground with a crash and never could be set up again. 
 
 300. See Thomas Gray's On a Distant Prospect of E ton Col- 
 lege:— 
 
 11 Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthral ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 
 Or urge the flying ball? " 
 
 304. See the ode just cited and beginning: — 
 
 " Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 That crown the watery glade, 
 Where gratef u 1 Science still adores 
 Iler Ilenry's holy shade." 
 
346 m HOLMES. 
 
 315 Brothers, forgive my wayward fancy. Who 
 Can guess beforehand what his pen will do ? 
 Too light my strain for listeners such as these, 
 Whom graver thoughts and soberer speech shull 
 
 please. 
 Is he not here whose breath of holy song 
 
 520 Has raised the downcast eyes of faith so long ? 
 Are they not here, the strangers in your gates, 
 For whom the wearied ear impatient waits, — 
 The large-brained scholars whom their toils re- 
 lease, — 
 The bannered heralds of the Prince of Peace? 
 
 $25 Such was the gentle friend whose youth un- 
 blamed 
 In years long past our student-benches claimed; 
 Whose name, illumined on the sacred page, 
 Lives in the labors of his riper age; 
 Such he whose record time's destroying march 
 
 330 Leaves uneffaced on Zion's springing arch : 
 Not to the scanty phrase of measured song, 
 Cramped in its fetters, names like these belong ; 
 One ray they lend to gild my slender line, — 
 Their praise I leave to sweeter lips than mine. 
 
 335 Home of our sires, where learning's temple rose, 
 While yet they struggled with their banded foes, 
 
 319. One of the visitors present was the Rev. Dr. Ray Palmer, 
 author of the well-known hymn : — 
 
 " My faith looks up to Thee." 
 
 325. Dr. Holmes in a pleasant paper of reminiscences, Cinder* 
 from the Ashes has dwelt at length on his boyish recollections of 
 Horatio Balch Hackett, a schoolmate, and known later as the 
 learned Biblical scholar and student of Palestine explorations. 
 
 329. The reference is to Edward Robinson, the pioneer of 
 scientific travel in the Holy Land, one of whose best known 
 discoveries was of the remains of an arch of an ancient bridge 
 'hereafter called "Robinson's Arch." 
 
THE SCHOOLBOY. 347 
 
 As in the west thy century's sun descends, 
 One parting gleam its dying radiance lends. 
 Darker and deeper though the shadows fall 
 
 340 From the gray towers on Doubting Castle's wall, 
 Though Pope and Pagan re-array their hosts, 
 And her new armor youthful Science boasts, 
 Truth, for whose altar rose this holy shrine, 
 Shall fly for refuge to these bowers of thine ; 
 
 345 No past shall chain her with its rusted vow, 
 No Jew's phylactery bind her Christian brow, 
 But faith shall smile to find her sister free, 
 And nobler manhood draw its life from thee. 
 Long as the arching skies above thee spread, 
 
 350 As on thy groves the dews of heaven are shed, 
 With currents widening still from year to year, 
 And deepening channels, calm, untroubled, clear, 
 Flow the twin streamlets from thy sacred hill — 
 Pieria's fount and Siloam's shaded rill ! 
 
 354. Pieria was the fabled home of the Muses and the birth- 
 place of Orpheus; Siloam, a pool near Jerusalem, often men- 
 tioned by the prophets and in the New Testament, has passed 
 into poetry through Milton's lines : — • 
 
 " Or if Sion-hill 
 Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that, flowed 
 Fast by the oracle of God." 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book I., 1. 10. 
 
 And through the first two lines of Reginald Heber's hymn: — 
 M By cool Siloam's shady rill 
 How sweet the lily grows." 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born February 
 22, 1819, at Elmwood, Cambridge, Massachu- 
 setts, in the house which he still occupies. His 
 early life was spent in Cambridge, and he has 
 sketched many of the scenes in it very delightfully 
 in Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago, in his volume of 
 Fireside Travels, as well as in his early poem, An 
 Indian Summer Reverie, His father was a Con- 
 gregation alist minister of Boston, and the family to 
 which he belongs has had a strong representation 
 in Massachusetts. His grandfather, John Lowell, 
 was an eminent jurist, the Lowell Institute of Bos- 
 ton owes its endowment to John Lowell, a cousin 
 of the poet, and the city of Lowell was named after 
 Francis Cabot Lowell, an uncle, who was one of 
 the first to begin the manufacturing of cotton in 
 New England. 
 
 Lowell was a student at Harvard, and was grad 
 uated in 1838, when he gave a class poem, and in 
 1841 his first volume of poems, A Year's Life, 
 was published. His bent from the beginning was 
 more decidedly literary than that of any contempo- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 349 
 
 rary American poet. That is to say, the history 
 and art of literature divided his interest with the 
 production of literature, and he carries the unusual 
 gift of rare critical power, joined to hearty, sponta- 
 neous creation. It may indeed be guessed that the 
 keenness of judgment and incisiveness of wit which 
 characterize his examination of literature have 
 sometimes interfered with his poetic power, and 
 made him liable to question his art when he would 
 rather have expressed it unchecked. In connection 
 with Robert Carter, a litterateur who has lately 
 died, he began, in 1843, the publication of The 
 Pioneer, a Literary and Critical Magazine, which 
 lived a brilliant life of three months. A volume 
 of poetry followed in 1844, and the next year he 
 published Conversations on Some of the Old Poets, 
 a book which is now out of print, but interesting as 
 marking the enthusiasm of a young scholar, tread- 
 ing a way then almost wholly neglected in America, 
 and intimating a line of thought and study in which 
 he has since made most noteworthy ventures. An- 
 other series of poems followed in 1848, and in the 
 same year The Vision of Sir LaunfaL Perhaps it 
 was in reaction from the marked sentiment of his 
 poetry that he issued now Sijeii d 'esprit, A Fable 
 for Critics, in which he hit off, with a rough and 
 ready wit, the characteristics of the writers of the 
 day, not forgetting himself in these lines : — 
 
 " There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to climb 
 With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, 
 He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, 
 But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders; 
 
350 LOWELL. 
 
 The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 
 Till he learns the distinction twixt singing and preaching; 
 
 His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well 
 
 But he 'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, 
 
 And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem, 
 
 At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem." 
 
 This, of course, is but a half serious portrait of 
 himself, and it touches but a single feature ; others 
 can say better that Lowell's ardent nature showed 
 itself in the series of satirical poems which now 
 made him famous, The Biglow Papers, written in a 
 spirit of indignation and fine scorn, when the Mexi- 
 can War was causing many Americans to blush 
 with shame at the use of the country by a class for 
 its own ignoble ends. The true patriotism which 
 marked these and other of his early poems, burnt 
 with a steady glow in after years, and illumined 
 poems of which we shall speak presently. 
 
 After a year and a half spent in travel, Lowell 
 was appointed in 1855 to the Belles Lettres pro- 
 fessorship, lately held at Harvard by Longfellow. 
 When the Atlantic Monthly was established in 1857 
 he was editor, and a year or two after relinquishing 
 the post he assumed part editorship of the North 
 American 9teview. In these two magazines, as also 
 in Putnam's Monthly, he published poems, essays, 
 and critical papers, which have been gathered into 
 volumes. His prose writings, besides the volumes 
 already mentioned, include two series of Among my 
 Books, historical and critical studies chiefly in Eng- 
 lish literature ; and My Study Windows, including 
 with similar subjects observations of nature antf 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 351 
 
 contemporary life. During the war for the Union 
 he published a second series of the Biglow Papers, 
 in which with the wit and fun of the earlier series 
 there was mingled a deeper strain of feeling and a 
 larger tone of patriotism. The limitations of- his 
 style in these satires forbade the fullest expression 
 of his thought and emotion, but afterward in a suc- 
 cession of poems, occasioned by the honors paid to 
 student-soldiers in Cambridge, the death of Agassiz, 
 and the celebration of national anniversaries during 
 the years 1875 and 1876, he sang in loftier, more 
 ardent strains. The interest which readers have in 
 Lowell is still divided between his rich, abundant 
 prose, and his thoughtful, often passionate verse. 
 The sentiment of his early poetry, always humane, 
 has been enriched by larger experience, so that the 
 themes which he has lately chosen demand and re- 
 ceive a broad treatment, full of sympathy with the 
 most generous instincts of the present, and built 
 upon historic foundations. In 1877 he went to 
 Spain as Minister Plenipotentiary. 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 [Author's Note. — According to the mythol- 
 ogy of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, 
 was the cup out of which Jesus Christ partook of 
 the last supper with his disciples. It was brought 
 into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and re- 
 mained there, an object of pilgrimage and adora- 
 tion, for many years in the keeping of his lineal 
 descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had 
 charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and 
 deed ; but one of the keepers, having broken this 
 condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that 
 time it was a favorite enterprise of the Knights of 
 Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad 
 was at last successful in finding it, as may be read 
 in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King 
 Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the sub- 
 ject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. 
 
 The plot (if I may give that name to anything 
 so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, to 
 serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of 
 competition in search of the miraculous cup in such 
 a manner as to include not only other persons than 
 the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period 
 of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's 
 reign.] 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 353 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. 
 
 Over his keys the musing organist, 
 
 Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
 First lets his fingers wander as they list, 
 
 And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; 
 Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 
 
 Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
 First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 
 
 Along the wavering vista of his dream. 
 
 Not only around our infancy 
 lo Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 
 
 Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
 We Sinais climb and know it not. 
 
 Over our manhood bend the skies; 
 Against our fallen and traitor lives 
 15 The great winds utter prophecies; 
 
 With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
 Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 
 
 Waits with its benedicite; 
 And to our age's drowsy blood 
 20 Still shouts the inspiring sea. 
 
 Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 
 
 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
 The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 
 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in; 
 
 9. In allusion to Wordsworth's 
 
 " Heaven lies about us in our infancy ," 
 In his ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early 
 Childhood. 
 
 23 
 
854 LO WELL. 
 
 25 At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
 Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold 
 
 For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
 Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking 
 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
 30 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
 No price is set on the lavish summer; 
 June may be had by the poorest comer. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
 35 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays: 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might, 
 40 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 45 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 50 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 
 27. In the Middle Ages kings and noblemen had in the.- • 
 courts jesters to make sport for the company ; as every one 
 then wore a dress indicating his rank or occupation, so the jes- 
 ler wore a cap hung with bells. The fool of Shakspere's playi 
 is the king's jester at his best. 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 355 
 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and 
 sings ; 
 55 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 
 
 Now is the high-tide of the year, 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 
 Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
 60 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
 
 We are happy now because God wills it; 
 
 No matter how barren the past may have been, 
 
 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
 65 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
 
 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
 
 That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
 70 That dandelions are blossoming near, 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flow- 
 ing, 
 
 That the river is bluer than the sky, 
 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
 75 For other couriers we should not lack; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing 1 
 
 80 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
 Everything is happy now, 
 
 Everything is upward striving ; 
 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
 As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 
 
 85 'T is the natural way of living: 
 
$56 LOWELL. 
 
 Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 
 
 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; 
 And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
 90 The soul partakes of the season's youth, 
 
 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
 Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, . 
 
 Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
 What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
 95 Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 m My golden spurs tjow bring to me, 
 And bring to me my richest mail, 
 
 For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
 In search of the Holy Grail; 
 loo Shall never a bed for me be spread, 
 
 Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
 
 Till I begin my vow to keep; 
 
 Here on the rushes will I sleep, 
 
 And perchance there may come a vision true 
 I05 Ere day create the world anew/' 
 
 Slowly Sir Launfal' s eyes grew dim, 
 Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
 
 And into his soul the vision flew. 
 
 The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 
 no In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 
 The little birds sang as if it were 
 The one day of summer in all the year, 
 
 And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 357 
 
 The castle alone in the landscape lay 
 £15 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 
 
 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
 
 And never its gates might opened be, 
 
 Save to lord or lady of high degree; 
 
 Summer besieged it on every side, 
 [20 But the churlish stone her assaults defied; 
 
 She could not scale the chilly wall, 
 
 Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
 
 Stretched left and right, 
 
 Over the hills and out of sight; 
 125 Green and broad was every tent, 
 And out of each a murmur went 
 
 Till the breeze fell off at night. 
 
 The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
 And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
 
 130 Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
 In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
 It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
 Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
 In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
 
 ^35 And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 
 
 Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, 
 And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
 Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
 To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 
 
 IV. 
 
 '40 It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 
 And morning in the young knight's heart; 
 
 Only the castle moodily 
 
 Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 
 And gloomed by itself apart; 
 
358 LO WELL. 
 
 145 The season brimmed all other things up 
 Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 
 
 As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome 
 gate, 
 He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
 Who begged with his hand and moaned as he 
 sate; 
 150 And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 
 
 The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, 
 The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and 
 crawl, 
 And midway its leap his heart stood still 
 Like a frozen waterfall; 
 155 For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
 Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 
 And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
 So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The leper raised not the gold from the dust: 
 
 160 u Better to me the poor man's crust, 
 Better the blessing of the poor, 
 Though I turn me empty from his door; 
 That is no true alms which the hand can hold; 
 He gives nothing but worthless gold 
 
 165 Who gives from a sense of duty; 
 But he who gives but a slender mite, 
 And gives to that which is out of sight, 
 
 That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
 Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
 
 I/O The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 
 The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
 For a god goes with it and makes it store 
 To the soul that was starving in darkness before. 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 359 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. 
 
 Down swept the chill wind from the mountain 
 peak, 
 175 From the snow five thousand summers old; 
 
 On open -wold and hill-top bleak 
 It had gathered all the cold, 
 
 And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; 
 
 It carried a shiver everywhere 
 180 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; 
 
 The little brook heard it and built a roof 
 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 
 
 All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
 
 He groined his arches and matched his beams; 
 185 Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
 
 As the lashes of light that trim the stars; 
 
 He sculptured every summer delight 
 
 In his halls and chambers out of sight; 
 
 Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
 190 Down through a frost- leaved forest-crypt, 
 
 Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
 
 Bending to counterfeit a breeze; 
 
 Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
 
 But silvery mosses that downward grew; 
 195 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
 
 With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 
 
 Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 
 
 For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and 
 here 
 
 He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
 20c And hung them thickly with diamond drops, 
 
 174. Note the different moods that are indicated by the two 
 preludes. The one is of June, the other of snow and winter. 
 By these preludes the poet, like an organist, strikes a key which 
 te hoids in the subsequent part. 
 
360 LOWELL. 
 
 That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 
 And made a star of every one: 
 No mortal builder's most rare device 
 Could match this winter-palace of ice; 
 
 205 *T was as if every image that mirrored lay 
 In his depths serene through the summer day, 
 Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 
 Lest the happy model should be lost, 
 Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
 
 210 By the elfin builders of the frost.- 
 
 Within the hall are song and laughter, 
 
 The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 
 With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
 215 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
 Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
 The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
 
 And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
 Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 
 220 Hunted to death in its galleries blind; 
 And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
 
 Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
 Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 
 
 Like herds of startled deer. 
 
 203. The Empress of Russia, Catherine II., in a magnificent 
 freak, built a palace of ice, which was a nine-days* wonder 
 Cowper has given a poetical description of it in The Task, Book 
 V. lines 131-176. 
 
 216. The Yule-log was anciently a huge log burned at the 
 "east of Juul by our Scandinavian ancestors in honor of the god 
 Thor. Juul-tid corresponded in time to Christmas tide, and 
 when Christian festivities took the place of pagan, many cer- 
 emonies remained. The great log, still called the Yule-log, wa8 
 dragged in and burned in the fire-place after Thor had bee« 
 'orgotten. 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 361 
 
 225 But the wind without was eager and sharp, 
 Of Sir LaunfaFs gray hair it makes a harp, 
 And rattles and wrings 
 The icy strings, 
 Singing, in dreary monotone, 
 230 A Christmas carol of its own, 
 
 Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
 Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
 235 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
 Through the window- slits of the castle old, 
 Build out its piers of ruddy light 
 Against the drift of the cold. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 240 There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
 
 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; 
 
 The river was dumb and could not speak, 
 For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; 
 
 A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
 E45 From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 
 
 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
 
 As if her veins were sapless and old, 
 
 And she rose up decrepitly 
 
 For a last dim look at earth and sea. 
 
 250 Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 
 For another heir in the earldom sate ; 
 An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
 He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 
 
362 LOWELL. 
 
 Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
 255 No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 
 But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
 The badge of the suffering and the poor. 
 
 Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
 Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
 
 260 For it was just at the Christmas time; 
 
 So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
 And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
 In the light and warmth of long-ago; 
 He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
 
 265 O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 
 Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 
 He can count the camels in the sun, 
 As over the red-hot sands they pass 
 To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 
 
 270 The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 
 And with its own self like an infant played, 
 And waved its signal of palms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — 
 The happy camels may reach the spring, 
 275 But Sir 'Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 
 The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 
 That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
 And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
 In the desolate horror of his disease. 
 
 r8o And Sir Launfal said, — " I behold in thee 
 An image of Him who died on the tree; 
 Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 363 
 
 Thou also hast had the world's buffets and 
 
 scorns, — 
 And to thy life were not denied 
 285 The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
 Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; 
 Behold, through him, I give to Thee I" 
 
 Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
 And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
 290 Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
 He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
 When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
 And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
 The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
 295 He parted in twain his single crust, 
 
 He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
 And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 
 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, — 
 300 Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, 
 
 And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty 
 soul. 
 
 As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
 A light shone round about the place; 
 The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
 J05 But stood before him glorified, 
 
 Shining and tall and fair and straight 
 
 As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 
 
 Himself the Gate whereby men can 
 
 Enter the temple of God in Man. 
 
364 LOWELL. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 310 His words were shed softer than leaves from the 
 pine, 
 And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the 
 
 brine, 
 That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
 With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; 
 And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 
 
 315 " Lo it is I, be not afraid! 
 In many climes, without avail, 
 Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; 
 Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
 Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; 
 
 320 This crust is my body broken for thee, 
 
 This water His blood that died on the tree 
 The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
 In whatso we share with another's need : 
 Not what we give, but what we share, — 
 
 325 For the gift without the giver is bare; 
 
 Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — 
 Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 
 
 Sir Launfal awoke as from a swcund : — 
 " The Grail in my castle here is found! 
 330 Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
 Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
 He must be fenced with stronger mail 
 Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 
 
 x. 
 
 The castle gate stands open now, 
 $35 And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
 As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 
 No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS. 365 
 
 The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; 
 
 When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
 540 She entered with him in disguise, 
 
 And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
 
 There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
 
 She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; 
 
 The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
 345 Has hall and bower at his command ; 
 
 And there 's no poor man in the North Countree 
 
 But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 
 
 II. 
 
 UNDER THE WILLOWS. 
 
 Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, 
 Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, 
 June is the pearl of our New England year. 
 Still a surprisal, though expected long, 
 5 Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, 
 Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, 
 Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, 
 With one great gush of blossom storms the world. 
 A week ago the sparrow was divine ; 
 
 10 The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 
 From post to post along the cheerless fence, 
 Was as a rhymer ere the poet come ; 
 But now, O rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, 
 Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the 
 West 
 
 15 Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, 
 Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, 
 
36G LOWELL. 
 
 The bobolink has come, and, like the soul 
 Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, 
 Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what 
 20 Save June ! Dear June ! Now God be praised far 
 June. 
 
 May is a pious fraud of the almanac, 
 
 A ghastly parody of real Spring 
 
 Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern 
 
 wind; 
 Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, 
 
 25 And, with her handful of anemones, 
 Herself as shivery, steal into the 6un, 
 The season need but turn his hour-glass round, 
 And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, 
 Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms, 
 
 30 Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front 
 With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard 
 All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books, 
 While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect, 
 Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, 
 
 35 I take my May down from the happy shelf 
 
 Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row, 
 
 17. Bryant has a charming poem, Robert of Lincoln, in which 
 the light-hearted song of the bird gets a homelier but no less do- 
 vightful interpretation. See, also, Lowell's lines in Suthin in 
 [he Pastoral Line, No. VI. of the second series of The Biglow 
 **apers : — 
 
 " 'Nuff Bed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, 
 Gladness on wings, the bobolink is here ; 
 Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, 
 Or climbs aginst the breeze with luiverin' wings, 
 Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, 
 Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air." 
 
 28. In the fifth act of Shakspere's King Lear, Lear enters 
 vith Cordelia dead in his arms. 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS. 367 
 
 Waiting my choice to open with full breast, 
 And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er denied 
 In-doors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods 
 %o Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year. 
 
 July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields, 
 Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge, 
 And every eve cheats us with show of clouds 
 That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang 
 45 Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly, 
 Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged, 
 Conjectured half, and half descried afar, 
 Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back 
 Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea. 
 
 50 But June is full of invitations sweet, 
 
 Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-reac 
 
 tomes 
 To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts 
 That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue. 
 The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane 
 
 55 Brushes, then listens, Will lie come? The bee, 
 All dusty as a miller, takes his toll 
 Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day 
 To sun me and do nothing ! Nay, I think 
 Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes 
 
 60 The student's wiser business ; the brain 
 That forages all climes to line its cells, 
 Ranging both worlds on lightest, wings of wish, 
 Will not distil the juices it has sucked 
 To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, 
 
 65 Except for him who hath the secret learned 
 To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take 
 
 44. /. e., that give a brazen hue and hardness to the western 
 <fcy at «unset. 
 
368 LOWELL. 
 
 The winds into his pulses. Hush! 'tis he! 
 My oriole, my glance of summer fire, 
 Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, 
 
 70 Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound 
 About the bough to help his housekeeping, — 
 Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, 
 Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, 
 Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, 
 
 75 Divines the providence that hides and helps. 
 Heave, ho ! Heave, ho ! he whistles as the twine 
 Slackens its hold ; once more, now / and a flash 
 Lightens across the sunlight to the elm 
 Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 
 
 80 Nor all his booty is the thread ; he trails 
 My loosened thought with it along the air, 
 And I must follow, would I ever find 
 The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life. 
 
 I care not how men trace their ancestry, 
 85 To ape or Adam ; let them please their whim ; 
 But 1 in June am midway to believe 
 A tree among my far progenitors, 
 Such sympathy is mine with all the race, 
 Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 
 90 There is between us. Surely there are times 
 When they consent to own me of their kin, 
 And condescend to me, and call me cousin, 
 Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, 
 Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills 
 95 Moving the lips, though fruitless of the words. 
 And I have many a life-long leafy friend, 
 Never estranged nor careful of my soul, 
 That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me 
 Within his tent as if I were a bird, 
 Or other free companion of the earth, 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS. 369 
 
 Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. 
 Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads 
 Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round 
 His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse, 
 
 105 In outline like enormous beaker, fit 
 
 For hand of Jotun, where, 'mid snow and mist 
 He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, 
 I know not by what grace, — for in the blood 
 Of our New World subduers lingers yet 
 
 1 10 Hereditary feud with trees, they being 
 
 (They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes, - - 
 Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, 
 The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink 
 Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, 
 
 115 Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing, 
 Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank. 
 The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers 
 And glints his steely aglets in the sun, 
 Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom 
 
 120 Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 
 Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike 
 Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl 
 A rood of silver bellies to the day. 
 
 Alas! no acorn from the British oak 
 125 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those 
 rings 
 Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life 
 Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed, 
 
 106. Jotun is a giant in the Scandinavian mythology. 
 
 112. The Pleiades were seven daughters of Atlas and Fleion i\ 
 tj escape the hunter Orion, they begged to be changed in form, 
 &nd were made a constellation in the heavens. Only six were 
 -isible to the naked eye, so the seventh was held to be a lost 
 °leiad, and several stories were told to account for the loss. 
 24 
 
370 LO WELL. 
 
 Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy 
 Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; 
 
 130 With horn and hoof the good old Devil came, 
 The witch's broomstick was not contraband, 
 But all that superstition had of fair, 
 Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. 
 And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, 
 
 135 Fearing their god as if he were a wolf 
 
 That snuffed round every home and was not seen, 
 There should be some to watch and keep alive 
 All beautiful beliefs. And such was that, — 
 By solitary shepherd first surmised 
 
 I40 Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 
 Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished, 
 As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared 
 Confess a mortal name, — that faith which gave 
 A Hamadryad to each tree ; and I 
 
 145 Will hold it true that in this willow dwells 
 The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe, 
 Of ancient Hospitality, long since, 
 With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors. 
 
 In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree 
 F5o While the blithe season comforts every sense, 
 Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, 
 Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, 
 Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow 
 Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up 
 55 And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. 
 There muse I of old times, old hopes, old 
 
 friends, — 
 Old friends! The writing of those words has borne 
 My fancy backward to the gracious past, 
 The generous past, when all was possible, 
 160 For all was then untried; the years between 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS. 371 
 
 Have taught some sweet, some bitter lessons, none 
 Wiser than this, — to spend in all things else, 
 Bnt of old friends to be most miserly. 
 Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, 
 
 165 As to an oak, and precious more and more, 
 Without deservingness or help of ours, 
 They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, 
 Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade. 
 Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, 
 
 I70 Which Nature's milliners would scrape away; 
 Most dear and sacred every withered limb! 
 'Tis good to set them early, for our faith 
 Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come, 
 Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears. 
 
 175 This willow is as old to me as life; 
 
 And under it full often have I stretched, 
 Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive, 
 And gathering virtue in at every pore 
 Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, 
 
 180 Or was transfused in something to which thought 
 Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost, 
 Gone from me like an ache, and what remained 
 Became a part of the universal joy. 
 My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, 
 
 185 Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, 
 Saw its white double in the stream below ; 
 Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, 
 Dilated in the broad blue over all. 
 I was the wind that dappled the lush grass, 
 
 [90 The tide that crept with coolness to its roots, 
 The thin-winged swallow skating on the air ; 
 The life that gladdened everything was mine. 
 Was I then truly all that I beheld? 
 Or is this stream of being but a glass 
 95 Where the mind see its visionary self, 
 
372 LO WELL. 
 
 As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his bay, 
 Across the river's hollow heaven below, 
 His picture flits, — another, yet the same? 
 But suddenly the sound of human voice 
 200 Or footfall, like the drop a chemist pours, • 
 
 Doth in opacous cloud precipitate 
 The consciousness that seemed but now dissolved 
 Into an essence rarer than its own, 
 And I am narrowed to myself once more. 
 
 205 For here not long is solitude secure, 
 Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. 
 Here, sometimes, in this paradise of shade, 
 Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp, 
 Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, 
 
 210 Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 
 
 And munch an unearned meal. I cannot help 
 Liking this creature, lavish Summer's bedesman, 
 Who from the almshouse steals when nights grow 
 
 warm, 
 Himself his large estate and only charge, 
 
 215 To be the guest of haystack or of hedge, 
 Nobly superior to the household gear 
 That forfeits us our privilege of nature. 
 I bait him with my match-box and my pouch, 
 Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of smoke, 
 
 220 His equal now, divinely unemployed. 
 
 Some smack of Robin Hood is in the man, 
 
 Some secret league with wild wood-wandering 
 
 things ; 
 He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot Earl, 
 By right of birth exonerate from toil, 
 
 225 Who levies rent from us his tenants all, 
 
 And serves the state by merely being. ' Here, 
 The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat, 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS 373 
 
 And lets the kind breeze, with its delicate 
 fan, 
 
 Winnow the heat from out his dank gray hair, — 
 230 A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 
 
 Whose feet are known to all the populous ways, 
 
 And many men and manners he hath seen, 
 
 Not without fruit of solitary thought. 
 
 He, as the habit is of lonely men, — 
 235 Unused to try the temper of their mind 
 
 In fence with others, — positive and shy, 
 
 Yet knows to put an edge upon his speech, 
 
 Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. 
 
 Him I entrap with my long-suffering knife, 
 240 And, while its poor blade hums away in sparks, 
 
 Sharpen my wit upon his gritty' mind, 
 
 In motion set obsequious to his wheel, 
 
 And in its quality not much unlike. 
 
 Nor wants my tree more punctual visitors. 
 
 245 The children, they who are the only rich, 
 Creating for the moment, and possessing 
 Whate'er they choose to feign, — for still with 
 
 them 
 Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother, 
 Strewing their lives with cheap material 
 
 250 For winged horses and Aladdin's lamps, 
 
 Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch profane 
 To dead leaves disenchanted, — long ago 
 Between the branches of the tree fixed seats, 
 Making an o'erturned box their table. Oft 
 
 255 The shrilling girls sit here between school hours, 
 
 230. Ulysses, the hero of Homer's Odyssey, receives the epi- 
 Miet much wandered in the first line of that poem, an epithet 
 often repeated, and is described as one who had seen many cities 
 *»f men, and known man}'- minds. 
 
374 LOWELL. 
 
 And play at What 's my thought like? while the 
 
 boys, 
 With whom the age chivalric ever bides, 
 Pricked on by knightly spur of female eyes, 
 Climb high to swing and shout on perilous boughs, 
 zGz Or, from the willow's armory equipped 
 
 With musket dumb, green banner, edgeless sword, 
 Make good the rampart of their tree-redoubt 
 'Gainst eager British storming from below, 
 And keep alive the tale of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 265 Here, too, the men that mend our village ways, 
 Vexing Mc Adam's ghost with pounded slate, 
 Their nooning take ; much noisy talk they spend 
 On horses and their ills; and, as John Bull 
 Tells of Lord This or That, who was his friend, 
 
 270 So these make boast of intimacies long 
 
 With famous teams, and add large estimates, 
 By competition swelled from mouth to mouth, 
 Of how much they could draw, till one, ill pleased 
 To have his legend overbid, retorts : 
 
 275 M You take and stretch truck-horses in a string 
 From here to Long Wharf end, one thing I know, 
 Not heavy neither, they could never draw, — 
 Ensign's long bow!" Then laughter loud and 
 
 long. 
 So they in their leaf-shadowed microcosm 
 
 280 Image the larger world ; for wheresoe'er 
 Ten men are gathered, the observant eye 
 Will find mankind in little, as the stars 
 Glide up and set, and all the heavens revolve 
 In the small welkin of a drop of dew. 
 
 266. Macadamized roads have kept alive the name of Sir Johi. 
 Loudon Macadam, who introduced the mode at the beginning 
 of this century. 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS. 375 
 
 285 I love to enter pleasure by a postern, 
 
 Not the broad popular gate that gulps the mob ; 
 To find my theatres in roadside nooks, 
 Where men are actors, and suspect it not ; 
 Where Nature all unconscious works her will, 
 
 290 And every passion moves with human gait, 
 Unhampered by the buskin or the train. 
 Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men 
 Lead lonely lives, I love society, 
 Nor seldom find the best with simple souls 
 
 295 Unswerved by culture from their native bent, 
 The ground we meet on being primal man 
 And nearer the deep bases of our lives. 
 
 But oh, half heavenly, earthly half, my soul, 
 Canst thou from those late ecstasies descend, 
 
 300 Thy lips still wet with the miraculous wine 
 That transubstantiates all thy baser stuff 
 To such divinity that soul and sense, 
 Once more commingled in their source, are lost, — 
 Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar thirst 
 
 305 With the mere dregs and rin sings of the world ? 
 Well, if my nature find her pleasure so, 
 I am content, nor need to blush; I take 
 My little gift of being clean from God, 
 Not haggling for a better, holding it 
 
 310 Good as was ever any in the world, 
 My days as good and full of miracle. 
 I pluck my nutriment from any bush, 
 Finding out poison as the first men did 
 By tasting and then suffering, if I must. 
 
 315 Sometimes my bush burns, and sometimes it ia 
 A leafless wilding shivering by the wall ; 
 But I have known when winter barberries 
 315. As did Moses's bush. 
 
276 LOWELL. 
 
 Pricked the effeminate palate with surprise 
 Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine. 
 
 320 Oh, benediction of the higher mood 
 
 And human -kindness of the lower! for both 
 I will be grateful while I live, nor question 
 The wisdom that hath made us what we are, 
 With such large range as from the ale-house bencfe 
 
 J25 Can reach the stars and be with both at home. 
 They tell us we have fallen on prosy days, 
 Condemned to glean the leavings of earth's feast 
 Where gods and heroes took delight of old ; 
 But though our lives, moving in one dull round 
 
 330 Of repetition infinite, become 
 
 Stale as a newspaper once read, and though 
 History herself, seen in her workshop, seem 
 To have lost the art that dyed those glorious panes, 
 Rich with memorial shapes of saint and sage, 
 
 335 That pave with splendor the Past's dusky aisles, — 
 Panes that enchant the light of common day 
 With colors costly as the blood of kings, 
 Till with ideal hues it edge our thought, — 
 Yet while the world is left, while nature lasts, 
 
 340 And man the best of nature, there shall be 
 
 Somewhere contentment for these human hearts, 
 Some freshness, some unused material 
 For wonder and for song. I lose myself 
 In other ways where solemn guide-posts say, 
 
 345- This way to Knowledge, This way to Repose, 
 But here, here only, I am ne'er betrayed, 
 For every by-path leads me to my love. 
 
 God's passionless reformers, influences, 
 
 That purify and heal and are not seen, 
 
 350 Shall mar say whence your virtue is, or how 
 
UNDER THE WILLOWS: 377 
 
 Ye make medicinal the wayside weed ? 
 I know that sunshine, through whatever rift 
 How shaped it matters not, upon my walls 
 Paints discs as perfect-rounded as its source, 
 355 And, like its antitype, the ray divine, 
 However finding entrance, perfect still, 
 Repeats the image unimpaired of God. 
 
 We, who by shipwreck only find the shores 
 Of divine wisdom, can but kneel at first ; 
 
 360 Can but exult to feel beneath our feet, 
 
 That long stretched vainly down the yielding 
 
 deeps, 
 The shock and sustenance of solid earth ; 
 Inland afar we see what temples gleam 
 Through immemorial stems of sacred groves, 
 
 365 And we conjecture shining shapes therein ; 
 Yet for a space we love to wonder here 
 Among the shells and sea- weed of the beach. 
 
 So mused I once within my willow-tent 
 One brave June morning, when the bluff north- 
 west, 
 
 370 Thrusting aside a dank and snuffling day 
 That made us bitter at our neighbors' sins, 
 Brimmed the great cup of heaven with sparkling 
 
 cheer 
 And roared a lusty stave ; the sliding Charles, 
 Blue toward the west, and bluer and more blue, 
 
 375 Living and lustrous as a woman's eyes 
 
 Look once and look no more, with southward 
 
 curve 
 Kan crinkling sunniness, like Helen's hair 
 Glimpsed in Elysium, insubstantial gold ; 
 From blossom-clouded orchards, far away 
 
878 LOWELL, 
 
 380 The bobolink tinkled ; the deep meadows flowed 
 With multitudinous pulse of light and shade 
 Against the bases of the southern hills, 
 While here and there a drowsy island rick 
 Slept and its shadow slept ; the wooden bridge 
 
 385 Thundered, and then was silent; on the roofs 
 The sun- warped shingles rippled with the heat; 
 Summer on field and hill, in heart and brain, 
 All life washed clean in this high tide of June. 
 
 in. 
 
 UNDER THE OLD ELM. 
 
 [Near Cambridge Common stands an old elm, 
 having at its base a stone with the inscription, 
 " Under this tree Washington first took command 
 of the American Army, July 3d, 1775." Upon the 
 one hundredth anniversary of this day the citizens 
 of Cambridge held a celebration under the tree, and 
 Mr. Lowell read the following poem.] 
 
 1. 
 
 Words pass as wind, but where great deeds wem 
 
 done 
 A power abides transfused from sire to son : 
 The boy feels deeper meanings thrill his ear, 
 That tingling through his pulse life-long shall run, 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 379 
 
 5 With sure impulsion to keep honor clear, 
 
 When, pointing down, his father whispers, " Here, 
 Here, where we stand, stood he, the purely Great, 
 Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, 
 Then nameless, now a power and mixed with 
 fate. ,, 
 
 10 Historic town, thou holdest sacred dust, 
 Once known to men as pious, learned, just, 
 And one memorial pile that dares to last; 
 But Memory greets with reverential kiss 
 No spot in all thy circuit sweet as this, 
 
 15 Touched by that* modest glory as it past, 
 O'er which yon elm hath piously displayed 
 These hundred years its monumental shade. 
 
 2. 
 
 Of our swift passage through this scenery 
 Of life and death, more durable than we, 
 
 20 What landmark so congenial as a tree 
 Repeating its green legend every spring, 
 And, with a yearly ring, 
 Recording the fair seasons as they flee, 
 Type of our brief but still-renewed mortality ? 
 
 25 We fall as leaves: the immortal trunk remains, 
 Builded with costly juice of hearts and brains 
 Gone to the mould now, whither all that be 
 Vanish returnless, yet are procreant still 
 In human lives to come of good or ill, 
 
 •3c And feed unseen the roots of Destiny. 
 
 12. Memorial Hall, built by the alumni of Harvard, in 
 memory of those who fell in the war for nnion, a building of 
 aiore serious thought than any in Cambridge, and among the 
 few in the country built to endure. 
 
880 LO WELL, 
 
 n. 
 
 Men's monuments, grown old, forget their names 
 They should eternize, but the place 
 Where shining souls have passed imbibes a grace 
 Beyond mere earth ; some sweetness of their 
 fames 
 
 35 Leaves in the soil its unextinguished trace, 
 Pungent, pathetic, sad with nobler aims, 
 That penetrates our lives and heightens them or 
 
 shames. 
 This insubstantial world and fleet 
 Seems solid for a moment when we stand 
 
 40 On dust ennobled by heroic feet 
 
 Once mighty to sustain a tottering land, 
 
 And mighty still such burthen to upbear, 
 
 Nor doomed to tread the path of things that merely 
 
 were: 
 Our sense, refined with virtue of the spot, 
 
 45 Across the mists of Lethe's«sleepy stream 
 Recalls him, the sole chief without a blot, 
 No more a pallid image and a dream, 
 But as he dwelt with men decorously supreme. 
 
 2. 
 
 Our grosser minds need this terrestial hint 
 to To raise long-buried days from tombs of print: 
 44 Here stood he," softly we repeat, 
 And lo, the statue shrined and still 
 In that gray minster-front we call the Past, 
 Feels in its frozen veins our pulses thrill, 
 55 Breathes living air and mocks at Death's deceit. 
 It warms, it stirs, comes down to us at last, 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 381 
 
 Its features human with familiar light, 
 
 A man, beyond the historian's art to kill, 
 
 Or sculptor's to efface with patient chisel-blight. 
 
 60 Sure the dumb earth hath memory, for naught 
 Was Fancy given, on whose enchanted loom 
 Present and Past commingle, fruit and bloom 
 Of one fair bough, inseparably wrought 
 Into the seamless tapestry of thought. 
 
 65 So charmed, with undeluded eye we see 
 In history's fragmentary tale 
 Bright clews of continuity, 
 Learn that high natures over Time prevail, 
 And feel ourselves a link in that entail 
 
 70 That binds all ages past with all that are to be. 
 
 III. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beneath our consecrated elm 
 A century ago he stood, 
 Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood 
 Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm 
 75 The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn 
 helm : — 
 From colleges, where now the gown 
 
 .73. Referring to Braddock's defeat, when Washington wrote 
 to his brother: "By the all-powerful dispensations of Provi- 
 dence I have been protected beyond all human probability or 
 expectation ; for I had four bullets through my coat, and two 
 horses shot under me, yet I escaped unhurt, although death was 
 levelling my companions on every side of me." 
 
 76. Study in Cambridge was suspended, the buildings used 
 as barracks, and the students sent to Concord. 
 
582 LO WELL. 
 
 To arms had yielded, from the town, 
 
 Our rude self -summoned levies flocked to see 
 
 The new-come chiefs and wonder which was he. 
 
 80 No need to question long; close-lipped and tall, 
 Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone 
 To bridle others' clamors and his own, 
 Firmly erect, he towered above them all, 
 The incarnate discipline that was to free 
 
 &5 With iron curb that armed democracy. 
 
 A motley rout was that which came to stare, 
 In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm, 
 Of every shape that was not uniform, 
 Dotted with regimentals here and there; 
 90 An army all of captains, used to pray 
 
 And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair, 
 Skilled to debate their orders, not obey; 
 Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note 
 In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods, 
 95 Ready to settle Freewill by a vote, 
 But largely liberal to its private moods; 
 Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen, 
 Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen, 
 Nor much fastidious as to how and when: 
 100 Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create 
 A thought-staid army or a lasting state: 
 Haughty they said he was, at first; severe; 
 But owned, as all men own, the steady hand 
 Upon the bridle patient to command, 
 
 86. The letters of Washington and of other generals in the 
 early part of the Revolutionary war, bear repeated witness to the 
 undisciplined character of the troops. " I found a mixed multi- 
 tude of people here," writes Washington, July 27th, "under 
 rery little discipline, order, or government." 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 383 
 
 k(>5 Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear, 
 And learned to honor first, then love him, then 
 
 revere. 
 Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint 
 And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint. 
 
 3. 
 
 Musing beneath the legendary tree, 
 no The years between furl off: I seem to see 
 
 The sun-flecks, shaken the stirred foliage through, 
 Dapple with gold his sober buff and blue 
 And weave prophetic aureoles round the head 
 That shines our beacon now nor darkens with the 
 dead. 
 I15 O man of silent mood, 
 
 A stranger among strangers then, 
 How art thou since renowned the Great, the Good, 
 Familiar as the day in all the homes of men! 
 The winged years, that winnow praise and blame, 
 20 Blow many names out: they but fan to flame 
 The self-renewing splendors of thy fame. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How many subtlest influences unite, 
 With spiritual touch of joy or pain, 
 Invisible as air and soft as light, 
 i 25 To body forth that image of the brain 
 
 112. The American colors in the Revolution were buff and 
 Vlue. Fox wore them in Parliament, as did Burke also on occa- 
 sion. There is discussion as to the origin of the colors, for 
 which see Stanhope's Miscellanies, First Series, pp. 116-122, 
 Mid Proc. Mass. Hist. Soc. Jan. 1859, pp. 149-154. 
 
384 LO WELL. 
 
 We call our Country, visionary shape, 
 
 Loved more than woman, fuller of fire than wine, 
 
 Whose charm can none define, 
 
 Nor any, though he flee it, can escape ! 
 
 130 All party-colored threads the weaver Time 
 Sets in his web, now trivial, now sublime, 
 All memories, all forebodings, hopes and fears, 
 Mountain and river, forest, prairie, sea, 
 A hill, a rock, a homestead, field, or tree, 
 
 135 The casual gleanings of unreckoned years, 
 Take goddess-shape at last and there is She, 
 Old at our birth, new as the springing hours, 
 Shrine of our weakness, fortress of our powers, 
 Consoler, kindler, peerless 'mid her peers, 
 
 140 A force that 'neath our conscious being stirs, 
 A life to give ours permanence, when we 
 Are borne to mingle our poor earth with hers, 
 And all this glowing world goes with us on ou- 
 biers. 
 
 2. 
 
 Nations are long results, by ruder ways 
 145 Gathering the might that warrants length of days; 
 They may be pieced of half -reluctant shares 
 Welded by hammer-strokes of broad-brained kings, 
 Or from a doughty people grow, the heirs 
 Of wise traditions widening cautious rings; 
 50 At best they are computable things, 
 
 A strength behind us making us feel bold 
 In right, or, as may chance, in wrong; 
 Whose force by figures may be summed and told 
 So many soldiers, ships, and dollars strong, 
 155 And we but drops that bear compulsory part 
 In the dumb throb of a mechanic heart ; 
 But Country is a shape of each man's mind 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 385 
 
 Sacred from definition, unconfined 
 
 By the cramped walls where daily drudgeries 
 grind ; 
 160 An inward vision, yet an outward birth 
 
 Of sweet familiar heaven and earth ; 
 
 A brooding Presence that stirs motions blind 
 
 Of wings within our embryo being's shell 
 
 That wait but her completer spell 
 165 To make us eagle-natured, fit to dare 
 
 Life's nobler spaces and untarnished air. 
 
 3. 
 
 You, who hold dear this self-conceived ideal, 
 Whose faith and works alone can make it real, 
 Bring all your fairest gifts to deck her shrine 
 
 170 Who lifts our lives away from Thine and Mine 
 And feeds the lamp of manhood more divine 
 With fragrant oils of quenchless constancy. 
 When all have done their utmost, surely he 
 Hath given the best who gives a character 
 
 175 Erect and constant, which nor any shock 
 Of loosened elements, nor the forceful sea 
 Of flowing or of ebbing fates, can stir 
 From its deep bases in the living rock 
 Of ancient manhood's sweet security: 
 
 180 And this he gave, serenely far from pride 
 
 As baseness, boon with prosperous stars allied, 
 Part of what nobler seed shall in our loins abide. 
 
 No bond of men as common pride so strong, 
 In names time-filtered for the lips of song, 
 ,85 Still operant, with the primal Forces bound, 
 Whose currents, on their spiritual round, 
 Transfuse our mortal will nor are gainsaid: 
 25 
 
386 LOWELL. 
 
 These are their arsenals, these the exhaustless 
 
 mines 
 That give a constant heart in great designs; 
 190 These are the stuff whereof such dreams are made 
 As make heroic men: thus surely he 
 Still holds in place the massy blocks he laid 
 'Neath our new frame, enforcing soberly 
 The self-control that makes and keeps a people 
 
 free. 
 
 195 Oh for a drop of that Cornelian ink 
 
 Which gave Agricola dateless length of days, 
 To celebrate him fitly, neither swerve 
 To phrase unkempt, nor pass discretion's brink 
 With him so statue-like in sad reserve, 
 
 200 So diffident to claim, so forward to deserve ! 
 Nor need I shun due influence of his fame 
 Who, mortal among mortals, seemed as now 
 The equestrian shape with unimpassioned brow, 
 That paces silent on through vistas of acclaim. 
 
 2. 
 
 205 What figure more immovably august 
 
 Than that grave strength so patient and so pure, 
 Calm in good fortune, when it wavered, sure, 
 That mind serene, impenetrably just, 
 
 190. A reminiscence of Shakspere's lines, — 
 
 We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 The Tempest, Act IV. Scene 1. 
 195. It was Caius Cornelius Tacitus who wrote in imperisb 
 tble -vords the life of Agricola. 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 387 
 
 Modelled on classic lines so simple they endure? 
 
 fro That soul so softly radiant and so white 
 
 The track it left seems less of fire than light, 
 Cold but to such as love distemperature ? 
 And if pure light, as some deem, be the force 
 That drives rejoicing planets on their course, 
 
 215 Why for his power benign seek an impurer source? 
 His was the true enthusiasm that burns long, 
 Domestically bright, 
 Fed from itself and shy of human sight, 
 The hidden force that makes a lifetime strong, 
 
 220 And not the short-lived fuel of a song. 
 
 Passionless, say you ? What is passion for 
 But to sublime our natures and control 
 To front heroic toils with late return, 
 Or none, or such as shames the conqueror? 
 
 225 That fire was fed with substance of the soul 
 And not with holiday stubble, that could burn, 
 Unpraised of men who after bonfires run, 
 Through seven slow years of unadvancing war, 
 Equal when fields were lost or fields were won, 
 
 230 With breath of popular applause or blame, 
 
 Nor fanned nor damped, unquenchably the same, 
 Too inward to be reached by flaws of idle fame. 
 
 3. 
 
 Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; 
 High-poised examp 4 e, of great duties done 
 
 235 Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn 
 As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; 
 Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, 
 But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, 
 Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, 
 
 240 Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; 
 239. At Valley Forge. 
 
388 LO WELL. 
 
 Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamed 
 Save by the men his nobler temper shamed ; 
 Never seduced through show of present good 
 By other than unsetting lights to steer 
 
 245 New-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast 
 mood 
 More steadfast, far from rashness as from fear ; 
 Rigid, but with himself first, grasping still 
 In swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will; 
 Not honored then or now because he wooed 
 
 250 The popular voice, but that he still withstood ; 
 Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one 
 Who was all this and ours, and all men's, - 
 Washington. 
 
 Minds strong by fits, irregularly great, 
 That flash and darken like revolving lights, 
 
 255 Catch more the vulgar eye unschooled to wait 
 On the long curve of patient days and nights 
 Rounding a whole life to the circle fair 
 Of orbed fulfilment; and this balanced soul, 
 So simple in its grandeur, coldly bare 
 
 260 Of draperies theatric, standing there 
 In perfect symmetry of self-control, 
 Seems not so great at first, but greater grows 
 Still as we look, and by experience learn 
 How grand this quiet is, how nobly stern 
 
 265 The discipline that wrought through life-long 
 throes 
 That energetic passion of repose. 
 
 5. 
 
 A nature too decorous and severe, 
 Too self-respectful in its griefs* and joys, 
 267. See note to The School-Boy, p. 336, 1. 71. 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 389 
 
 For ardent girls and boys 
 270 Who find no genius in a mind so clear 
 
 That its grave depths seem obvious and near, 
 Nor a soul great that made so little noise. 
 They feel no force in that calm-cadenced phrase, 
 The habitual full-dress of his well-bred mind, 
 275 That seems to pace the minuet's courtly maze 
 
 And tell of ampler leisures, roomier length of 
 
 days. 
 His firm-based brain, to self so little kind 
 That no tumultuary blood could blind, 
 Formed to control men, not amaze, 
 280 Looms not like those that borrow height of haze: 
 It was a world of statelier movement then 
 Than this we fret in, he a denizen 
 Of that ideal Rome that made a man for men. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The longer on this earth we live 
 285 And weigh the various qualities of men, 
 Seeing how most are fugitive, 
 Or fitful gifts, at best, of now and then, 
 Wind-wavered corpse-lights, daughters of the fen, 
 The more we feel the high stern-featured beauty 
 Z90 Of plain devotedness to duty, 
 
 Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise, 
 
 But finding amplest recompense 
 
 For life's ungarlanded expense 
 
 In work done squarely and unwasted days. 
 
 288. The daughters of the fen, — will-o'-the-wisps. The 
 Welsh call the same phenomenon corpse-lights, because it was 
 wpposed to forbode death, and to show the road that the corpse 
 would take. 
 
390 LOWELL. 
 
 295 For this we honor him, that he could know 
 How sweet the service and how free 
 Of her, God's eldest daughter here below, 
 And choose in meanest raiment which was she. 
 
 2. 
 
 Placid completeness, life without a fall 
 300 From faith or highest aims, truth's breacbless 
 
 wall, 
 Surely if any fame can bear the touch, 
 His will say " Here! " at the last trumpet's call, 
 The unexpressive man whose life expressed so 
 
 much. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Never to see a nation born 
 
 305 Hath been given to mortal man, 
 
 Unless to those who, on that summer morn, 
 Gazed silent when the great Virginian 
 Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash 
 Shot union through the incoherent clash 
 
 310 Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them 
 Around a single will's unpliant stem, 
 And making purpose of emotion rash. 
 Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb, 
 Nebulous at first but hardening to a star, 
 
 515 Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom, 
 The common faith that made us what we are. 
 
 That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans, 
 Till then provincial, to Americans, 
 And made a unity of wildering plans; 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 391 
 
 320 Here was the doom fixed: here is marked the date 
 When the New World awoke to man's estate, 
 Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind: 
 Nor thoughtless was the choice ; no love or hate 
 Could from its poise move that deliberate mind, 
 
 325 Weighing between too early and too late 
 Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate: 
 His was the impartial vision of the great 
 Who see not as they wish, but as they find. 
 He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less 
 
 330 The incomputable perils of success; 
 
 The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind ; 
 The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind; 
 The waste of war, the ignominy of peace ; 
 On either hand a sullen rear of woes, 
 
 335 Whose garnered lightnings none could guess, 
 
 Piling its thunder-heads and muttering " Cease! " 
 Yet drew not back his hand, but bravely chose 
 The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation 
 rose. 
 
 3. 
 
 A noble choice and of immortal seed ! 
 
 340 Nor deem that acts heroic wait on chance 
 Or easy were as in a boy's romance; 
 The man's whole life preludes the single deed 
 That shall decide if his inheritance 
 Be with the sifted few of matchless breed, 
 
 545 Our race's sap and sustenance, 
 
 Or with the unmotived herd that only sleep and 
 
 feed. 
 Choice seems a thing indifferent; thus or so, 
 What matters it? The Fates with mocking face 
 Look on inexorable, nor seem to know 
 
 550 Where the lot lurks that gives life's foremost 
 place. 
 
392 LO WELL. 
 
 Yet Duty's leaden casket holds it still, 
 And but two ways are offered to our will, 
 Toil with rare triumph, ease with safe disgrace, 
 The problem still for us and all of human race. 
 
 355 He chose, as men choose, where most dange? 
 showed, 
 Nor ever faltered 'neath the load 
 Of petty cares, that gall great hearts the most, 
 But kept right on the strenuous up-hill road, 
 Strong to the end, above complaint or boast : 
 
 360 The popular tempest on his rock-mailed coast 
 Wasted its wind-borne spray, 
 The noisy marvel of a day ; 
 His soul sate still in its unstormed abode. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Virginia gave us this imperial man 
 365 Cast in the massive mould 
 
 Of those high-statured ages old 
 
 Which into grander forms our mortal metal ran; 
 
 She gave us this unblemished gentleman: 
 
 What shall we give her back but love and praise 
 370 As in the dear old unestranged days 
 
 Before the inevitable wrong began? 
 
 Mother of States and undiminished men, 
 
 Thou gavest us a country, giving him, 
 
 And we owe alway what we owed thee then: 
 375 The boon thou wouldst have snatched from ui 
 again 
 
 Shines as before with no abatement dim. 
 
 A great man's memory is the only thing 
 
 351. See Shakspere's play of The Merchant of Venice with 
 ts three caskets of gold, silver, and lead, from which the suitor? 
 "»f Portia were to choose fate. 
 
UNDER THE OLD ELM. 393 
 
 With influence to outlast the present whim 
 
 And bind us as when here he knit our golden ring. 
 
 580 All of him that was subject to the hours 
 Lies in thy soil and makes it part of ours: 
 Across more recent graves, 
 Where unresentful Nature waves 
 Her pennons o'er the shot-ploughed sod, 
 
 385 Proclaiming the sweet Truce of God, 
 
 We from this consecrated plain stretch out 
 Our hands as free from afterthought or doubt 
 As here the united North 
 Poured her embrowned manhood forth 
 
 390 In welcome of our saviour and thy son. 
 
 Through battle we have better learned thy worth, 
 The long-breathed valor and undaunted will, 
 Which, like his own, the day's disaster done, 
 Could, safe in manhood, suffer and be still. 
 
 395 Both thine and ours the victory hardly won ; 
 If ever with distempered voice or pen 
 We have misdeemed thee, here we take it bacK, 
 And for the dead of both don common black. 
 Be to us evermore as thou wast then, 
 
 \po As we forget thou hast not always been, 
 Mother of States and unpolluted men, 
 Virginia, fitly named from England's manly queen I 
 
 385. See note to p. 216 1. 741. 
 
394 LOWELL 
 
 IV. 
 
 AGASSIZ. 
 
 [Louis John Rudolph Agassiz was of Swiss 
 birth, having been born in Canton Vaud, Switzer- 
 land, in 1807 (see Longfellow's pleasing poem, The 
 Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz), and had already 
 made a name as a naturalist, when he came to this 
 country to pursue investigations in 1846. Here he 
 was persuaded to remain, and after that identified 
 himself with American life and learning. He was 
 a masterly teacher, and by his personal enthusiasm 
 and influence did more than any one man in Amer- 
 ica to stimulate study in natural history. 1 Through 
 his name a great institution, the Museum of Com- 
 parative Zoology, was established at Cambridge, in 
 association with Harvard University, and he re- 
 mained at the head of it until his death in 1874. 
 His home was in Cambridge, and he endeared him- 
 self to all with whom he was associated by the un- 
 selfishness of his ambition, the generosity of his 
 affection, and the liberality of his nature. Lowell 
 was in Florence at the time of Agassiz's der th, and 
 sent home this poem, which was published in the 
 Atlantic Monthly for May, 1874. Longfellow, be- 
 sides in the poem mentioned above, has written of 
 Agassiz in his sonnets, Three Friends of Mine, in., 
 
 1 See Appendix. 
 
AGASSI Z. 395 
 
 and Whittier also wrote The Prayer of Agassiz 
 These poems are well worth comparing, as indicate 
 big characteristic strains of the three poets.] 
 
 Come 
 Dicesti egli ebbe? non viv' egli ancora? 
 Non fiere gli occhi suoi lo dolce lome? 
 
 Dante, Inferno, Canto X. lines 67-69 
 [How 
 Saidst thou, — lie had ? Is he not still alive ? 
 Does not the sweet light strike upon his eye ? 
 
 Longfellow, Translation.) 
 
 The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill 
 Makes next-door gossips of the antipodes, 
 Confutes poor Hope's last fallacy of ease, — 
 The distance that divided her from ill: 
 5 Earth sentient seems again as when of old 
 
 The horny foot of Pan 
 Stamped, and the conscious horror ran 
 Beneath men's feet through all her fibres cold : 
 Space's blue walls are mined ; we feel the throe 
 *o From underground of our night-mantled foe: 
 
 The flame-winged feet 
 Of Trade's new Mercury, that dry-shod run 
 Through briny abysses dreamless of the sun, 
 
 Are mercilessly fleet, 
 
 6. Since Pan was the deity supposed to pervade all nature, 
 the mysterious noises which issued from rocks or caves in 
 mountainous regions were ascribed to him, and an unreasonable 
 fear springing from sudden or unexplained causes came to be 
 «alled a panic. 
 
 12. Mercury, the messenger of the gods, and fabled to have 
 
396 LO WELL. 
 
 1 5 And at a bound annihilate 
 
 Ocean's prerogative of short reprieve; 
 
 Surely ill news might wait, 
 And man be patient of delay to grieve: 
 Letters have sympathies 
 20 And tell-tale faces that reveal, 
 
 To senses finer than the eyes, 
 Their errand's purport ere we break the seal ; 
 They wind a sorrow round with circumstance 
 To stay its feet, nor all unwarned displace 
 25 The veil that darkened from our sidelong glance 
 The inexorable face : 
 But now Fate stuns as with a mace; 
 The savage of the skies, that men have caught 
 And some scant use of language taught, 
 30 Tells only what he must, — 
 
 The steel cold fact in one laconic thrust. 
 
 2. 
 
 So thought I, as, with vague, mechanic eyes, 
 I scanned the festering news we half despise 
 Yet scramble for no less, 
 35 And read of public scandal, private fraud, 
 
 Crime flaunting scot-free while the mob applaud, 
 Office made vile to bribe unworthiness, 
 
 And all the unwholesome mess 
 The Land of Broken Promise serves of late 
 40 To teach the Old World how to wait, 
 
 When suddenly, 
 
 winged sandals, was the tutelar divinity of merchants, so thai 
 in a double way the modern application to the spirit of the 
 electric telegraph becomes fit. 
 
 39. At the time when this poem was written there was a suc- 
 cession of terrible disclosures in America of public and private 
 corruption; loud vaunts were made of dishonoring the nationa. 
 
AGASSIZ. 397 
 
 As happens if the brain, from overweight 
 
 Of blood, infect the eye, 
 Three tiny words grew lurid as I read, 
 45 And reeled commingling : Agassiz is dead. 
 
 As when, beneath the street's familiar jar, 
 An earthquake's alien omen rumbles far, 
 Men listen and forebode, I hung my head, 
 And strove the present to recall, 
 50 As if the blow that stunned were yet to fall. 
 
 Uprooted is our mountain oak, 
 That promised long security of shade 
 
 word in financial matters, and there were few who did not look 
 almost with despair upon the condition of public affairs. The 
 aspect was even more sharply derined to those Americans who, 
 travelling in Europe, found themselves openly or silently re- 
 garded as representatives of a nation that seemed to be dis- 
 gracing itself. Lowell's bitter words were part of the goadings 
 of conscience which worked so sharply in America in the years 
 immediately following. He was reproached by some for such 
 words as this line contains, and, when he published his Three 
 Memorial Poems, made this noble self-defence which stands in 
 the front of that little book : — 
 
 " If I let fall a word of bitter mirth 
 When public shames more shameful pardon won, 
 Some have misjudged me, and my service done, 
 If small, yet faithful, deemed of little worth : 
 Through veins that drew their life from Western earth 
 Two hundred years and more my blood hath run 
 In no polluted course from sire to son ; 
 And thus was I predestined ere my birth 
 To love the soil wherewith my fibres own 
 Instinctive sympathies ; yet love it so 
 As honor would, nor lightly to dethrone 
 Judgment, the stamp of manhood, nor forego 
 The son's right to a mother dearer grown 
 With growing knowledge and more chaste than snow." 
 
398 LO WELL 
 
 And brooding-place for many a winged thought; 
 Not by Time's softly warning stroke 
 55 By pauses of relenting pity stayed, 
 
 But ere a root seemed sapt, a bough decayed, 
 From sudden ambush by the whirlwind caught 
 And in his broad maturity betrayed ! 
 
 Well might I, as of old, appeal to you, 
 60 O mountains, woods, and streams, 
 
 To help us mourn him, for ye loved him too; 
 
 But simpler moods befit our modern themes, 
 And no less perfect birth of nature can, 
 Though they yearn tow'rds him, sympathize with 
 man, 
 65 Save as dumb fellow-prisoners through a wall ; 
 Answer ye rather to my call, 
 Strong poets of a more outspoken day, 
 Too much for softer arts forgotten since 
 That teach our forthright tongue to lisp and 
 mince, 
 70 Lead me some steps in your directer way, 
 Teach me those words that strike a solid root 
 
 59. In classical mythology Adonis was fabled as a lovely 
 youth, killed by a boar, and lamented long by Venus who was 
 inconsolable for his loss. The poets used this story for a symbol 
 of grief and when mourning the loss of a human being were 
 wont to call on nature to join in the lamentation. This classic 
 form of mourning descended in literature and at different times 
 has found very beautiful expression, as in Milton's Lycidas and 
 Shelley's Adonais which is a lament over the dead poet Keats. 
 Here the poet might justly call on nature to lament the death of 
 her great student, but he turns from the form as too classic and 
 artificial and remote from his warmer sympathy. In his own 
 strong sense of human life he demands a fellowship of grief 
 from no lower order of nature than man himself. 
 
AGASSIZ. 399 
 
 Within the ears of men ; 
 Ye chiefly, virile both to think and feel, 
 Deep-chested Chapman and firm-footed Ben, — 
 
 J5 For he was masculine from head and heel. 
 Nay, let himself stand undiminished by 
 With those clear parts of him that will not die. 
 Himself from out the recent dark I claim 
 To hear, and, if I flatter him, to blame; 
 
 80 To show himself, as still I seem to see, 
 A mortal, built upon the antique plan, 
 Brimful of lusty blood as ever ran, 
 And taking life as simply as a tree! 
 To claim my foiled good-by let him appear, 
 
 85 Large-limbed and human as I saw him near, 
 Loosed from the stiffening uniform of fame: 
 And let me treat him largely: I should fear, 
 (If with too prying lens I chanced to err, 
 Mistaking catalogue for character,) 
 
 90 His wise forefinger raised in smiling blame. 
 Nor would I scant him with judicial breath 
 And turn mere critic in an epitaph ; 
 I choose the wheat, incurious of the chaff 
 That swells fame living, chokes it after death, 
 
 95 And would but memorize the shining half 
 Of his large nature that was turned to me: 
 Fain had I joined with those that honored him 
 With eyes that darkened because his were dim, 
 And now been silent : but it might not be. 
 
 74. Chapman and Ben Jonson were contemporaries 0/ 
 Shakspere. The former is best known by his rich, picturesque 
 translation of Homer. Lowell may easily have had in mind 
 among Jonson's Elegies, his majestic ode, On the Death of Sir 
 Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison. He rightly claims for the 
 »ets of the Elizabethan age a frankness and largeness of speech 
 rarely heard in our more refined and restrained time. 
 84. Since the poet could not be by Agassiz at the last. 
 
400 LO WELL. 
 
 n. 
 
 loo In some the genius is a thing apart, 
 A pillared hermit of the brain, 
 Hoarding with incommunicable art 
 Its intellectual gain ; 
 Man's web of circumstance and fate 
 105 They from their perch of self observe, 
 
 Indifferent as the figures on a slate 
 
 Are to the planet's sun-swung curve 
 Whose bright returns they calculate ; 
 Their nice adjustment, part to part, 
 1 10 Were shaken from its serviceable mood 
 By unpremediated stirs of heart 
 
 Or jar of human neighborhood: 
 Some find their natural selves, and only then, 
 In furloughs of divine escape from men, 
 115 And when, by that brief ecstasy left bare, 
 Driven by some instinct of desire, 
 They wander worldward, 't is to blink and stare, 
 Like wild things of the wood about the fire, 
 Dazed of the social glow they cannot share; 
 120 His nature brooked no lonely lair, 
 
 But basked and bourgeoned in copartnery, 
 Companionship, and open- windowed glee: 
 He knew, for he had tried, 
 
 118. Travellers in the wilderness find their camp-fires the at- 
 traction of the beasts that prowl about the camp. 
 
 123. " Agassiz was a born metaphysician, and moreover had 
 pursued severe studies in philosophy. Those who knew him 
 well were constantly surprised at the ease with which he han- 
 dled the more intricate problems of thought." Theodore Lj- 
 man, in Recollections of Agassiz, Atlantic Monthly, February 
 1874. 
 
AGASSIZ. 401 
 
 Those speculative heights that lure 
 
 125 The unpractised foot, impatient of a guide, 
 Tow'rds ether too attenuately pure 
 For sweet unconscious breath, though dear to 
 pride, 
 But better loved the foothold sure 
 Of paths that wind by old abodes of men 
 
 130 Who hope at last the churchyard's peace secure, 
 And follow time-worn rules, that them suffice, 
 Learned from their sires, traditionally wise, 
 Careful of honest custom's how and when ; 
 His mind, too brave to look on Truth askance, 
 
 135 No more those habitudes of faith could share, 
 
 But, tinged with sweetness of the old Swiss manse, 
 Lingered around them still and fain would spare. 
 Patient to spy a sullen egg for weeks, 
 The enigma of creation to surprise, 
 
 140 His truer instinct sought the life that speaks 
 Without a mystery from kindly eyes ; 
 In no self-woven silk of prudence wound, 
 He by the touch of men was best inspired, 
 And caught his native greatness at rebound 
 
 145 From generosities itself had fired ; 
 
 Then how the heat through every fibre ran, 
 Felt in the gathering presence of the man, 
 While the apt word and gesture came unbid! 
 Virtues and faults it to one metal wrought, 
 
 150 Fined all his blood to thought, 
 
 And ran the molten man in all he said or did. 
 All Tully's rules and all Quintilian's too 
 He by the light of listening faces knew, 
 
 152. Tully is the now somewhat old-fashioned English way of 
 referring to Marcus Tullius Cicero, whose book De Oratore and 
 Quintilian's Institutiones Oratoria were the most celebrated an- 
 cient works on rhetoric. 
 
402 LOWELL. 
 
 And his rapt audience all unconscious lent 
 155 Their own roused force to make him eloquent; 
 
 Persuasion fondled in his look and tone; 
 
 Our speech (with strangers prudish) he could bring 
 
 To find new charms in accents not her own ; 
 
 Her coy constraints and icy hindrances 
 60 Melted upon his lips to natural ease, 
 
 As a brook's fetters swell the dance of spring. 
 
 Nor yet all sweetness: not in vain he wore, 
 
 Nor in the sheath of ceremony, controlled 
 
 By velvet courtesy or caution cold, 
 165 That sword of honest anger prized of old, 
 But, with two-handed wrath, 
 
 If baseness or pretension crossed his path, 
 Struck once nor needed to strike more. 
 
 2. 
 
 His magic was not far to seek, — 
 170 He was so human! whether strong or weak, 
 Far from his kind he neither sank nor soared, 
 But sate an equal guest at every board: 
 No beggar ever felt him condescend, 
 No prince presume ; for still himself he bare 
 175 At manhood's simple level, and where'er 
 He met a stranger, there he left a friend. 
 How large an aspect! nobly unsevere, 
 With freshness round him of Olympian cheer, 
 Like visits of those earthly gods he came ; 
 180 His look, wherever its good-fortune fell, 
 Doubled the feast without a miracle, 
 And on the hearthstone danced a happier flame; 
 Philemon's crabbed vintage grew benign; 
 Amphitryon's gold-juice humanized to wine. 
 
 183. For the stories of Philemon and Amphili'yon, see Ovid* 
 tfttamorpho»es } viii. 631, and vi. 112. 
 
AG AS SI Z. 408 
 
 III. 
 
 185 The garrulous memories 
 
 Gather again from all their far-flown nooks, 
 
 Singly at first, and then by twos and threes, 
 
 Then in a throng innumerable, as the rooks 
 
 Thicken their twilight files 
 
 190 Tow'rds Tintern's gray repose of roofless aisles: 
 Once more I see him at the table's head 
 When Saturday her monthly banquet spread 
 
 To scholars, poets, wits, 
 All choice, some famous, loving things, not names, 
 
 195 And so without a twinge at others' fames, 
 Such company as wisest moods befits, 
 Yet with no pedant blindness to the worth 
 
 Of undeliberate mirth, 
 Natures benignly mixed of air and earth, 
 
 200 Now with the stars and now with equal zest 
 Tracing the eccentric orbit of a jest. 
 
 2. 
 
 I see in vision the warm-lighted hall, 
 The living and the dead I see again, 
 And but one chair is empty of them all ; — 
 205 'T is I that seem the dead: they all remain 
 Immortal, changeless creatures of the brain: 
 Well-nigh I doubt which world is real most, 
 
 190. Tintern Abbey on the river Wye is one of the most fa- 
 mous ruins in England. About this as other ruins and shaded 
 buildings the rooks make their home. 
 
 392. A club known as the Saturday Club has for many years 
 met in Boston, and some of the prominent members are inti- 
 mated in the following Hues. 
 
404 LO WELL. 
 
 Of sense or spirit, to the truly sane ; 
 In this abstraction it were light to deem 
 
 210 Myself the figment of some stronger dream; 
 They are the real things, and I the ghost 
 That glide unhindered through the solid door, 
 Vainly for recognition seek from chair to chair, 
 And strive to speak and am but futile air, 
 
 215 As truly most of us are little more. 
 
 3. 
 
 Him most I see whom we most dearly miss, 
 
 The latest parted thence, 
 His features poised in genial armistice 
 And armed neutrality of self-defence 
 
 220 Beneath the forehead's walled preeminence, 
 While Tyro, plucking facts with careless reach, 
 Settles off-hand our human how and whence; 
 The long-trained veteran scarcely wincing hears 
 The infallible strategy of volunteers 
 
 225 Making through Nature's walls its easy breach, 
 And seems to learn where he alone could teach. 
 Ample and ruddy, the room's end he fills 
 As he our fireside were, our light and heat, 
 Centre where minds diverse and various skills 
 
 230 Find their warm nook and stretch unhampered 
 feet ; 
 I see the firm benignity of face, 
 Wide-smiling champaign without tameness sweet, 
 The mass Teutonic toned to Gallic grace, 
 The eyes whose sunshine runs before the lips 
 
 135 While Holmes's rockets curve their long ellipse, 
 And burst in seeds of fire that burst again 
 To drop in scintillating rain. 
 216. Agassiz himself. 
 
AGASSIZ. 405 
 
 There too the face half-rustic, half-divine, 
 Self-poised, sagacious, freaked with humor fine, 
 
 40 Of him who taught us not to mow and mope 
 About our fancied selves, but seek our scope 
 
 [n Nature's world and Man's, nor fade to hollow trope; 
 Listening with eyes averse I see him sit 
 Pricked with the cider of the judge's wit 
 
 245 (Ripe-hearted homebrew, fresh and fresh again), 
 While the wise nose's firm-built aquiline 
 
 Curves sharper to restrain 
 The merriment whose most unruly moods 
 Pass not the dumb laugh learned in listening woods 
 
 250 Of silence-shedding pine : 
 
 Hard by is he whose art's consoling spell 
 Has given both worlds a whiff of asphodel, 
 His look still vernal 'mid the wintry ring 
 Of petals that remember, not foretell, 
 
 255 The paler primrose of a second spring. 
 
 And more there are : but other forms arise 
 And seen as clear, albeit with dimmer eyes : 
 First he from sympathy still held apart 
 
 238. Ralph Waldo Emerson. The words half-rustic, half- 
 iHrine, recall Lowell's earlier characterization in his Fable for 
 Critics : — 
 
 " A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whoso range 
 Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange ; 
 He seems, to my thinking (although I am afraid 
 The comparison, must, long ere this, have been made), 
 A Plotinus Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist 
 And the Gascon's shrewd wit caeek by jowl co-exist." 
 244. Judge E. R. Hoar. 
 251. Longfellow. 
 
 258. Nathaniel Hawthorne. He was varied in Concord, Mav 
 U, 1864. 
 
406 LOWELL. 
 
 By shrinking over-eagerness of heart, 
 260 Cloud charged with searching fire, whose shadow's 
 sweep 
 Heightened mean things with sense of brooding ill, 
 And steeped in doom familiar field and hill, — 
 New England's poet, soul reserved and deep, 
 November nature with a name of May, 
 265 Whom high o'er Concord plains we laid to sleep, 
 While the orchards mocked us in their white ar- 
 ray, 
 And building robins wondered at our tears, 
 Snatched in his prime, the shape august 
 That should have stood unbent 'neath fourscore 
 years, 
 270 The noble head, the eyes of furtive trust, 
 All gone to speechless dust ; 
 And he our passing guest, 
 Shy nature, too, and stung with life's unrest, 
 Whom we too briefly had but could not hold, 
 275 Who brought ripe Oxford's culture to our board, 
 The Past's incalculable hoard, 
 Mellowed by scutcheoned panes in cloisters old, 
 Seclusions ivy-hushed, and pavements sweet 
 With immemorial lisp of musing feet ; 
 280 Young head time-tonsured smoother than a friar's, 
 Boy face, but grave with answerless desires, 
 Poet in all that poets have of best, 
 But foiled with riddles dark and cloudy aims. 
 Who now hath found sure rest, 
 272. Arthur Hugh Clough, an English poet, author of the 
 Bothie of Tober-na- Vuolich, and editor of Dryderi's Transla- 
 tion of Plutarch 7 s Lives, who came to this country in 1852 with 
 Borne purpose of making it his home, but returned to England 
 in less than a year. He lived while here in Cambridge, and 
 Btrong attachments grew up between him and the men of letters 
 in Cambridge and Concord. 
 
AGA&SIZ. 407 
 
 285 Not by still Isis or historic Thames, 
 
 Nor by the Charles he tried to love with ine, 
 But, not misplaced, by Arno's hallowed brim, 
 Nor scorned by Santa Croce's neighboring fames, 
 Haply not mindless, wheresoe'er he be, 
 290 Of violets that to-day I scattered over him ; 
 He, too, is there, 
 After the good centurion fitly named, 
 Whom learning dulled not, nor convention tamed, 
 Shaking with burly mirth his hyacin thine hair, 
 295 Oui hearty Grecian of Homeric ways, 
 Still found the surer friend where least he hoped the 
 praise. 
 
 6. 
 
 Yea truly, as the sallowing years 
 Fall from us faster, like frost-loosened leaves 
 Pushed by the misty touch of shortening days, 
 
 300 And that unwakened winter nears, 
 
 'T is the void chair our surest guests receives, 
 'T is lips long cold that give the warmest kiss, 
 'T is the lost voice comes oftenest to our ears; 
 We count our rosary by the beads we miss : 
 
 305 To me, at least, it seemeth so, 
 
 An exile in the land once found divine, 
 While my starved fire burns low, 
 
 287. Clough died in his forty-third year, November 13, 1861, 
 and was buried in the little Protestant cemetery outside the 
 walls of Florence. 
 
 288. Santa Croce is the church in Florence where many illus 
 trious dead are buried, among them Michelangelo, Machiavelli, 
 Galileo, Alfieri. 
 
 291. Cornelius Conway Felton, Professor of Greek Language 
 »nd Literature in Harvard College, and afterward Presid-nt until 
 ai death in 1P?2. 
 
408 LOWELL. 
 
 And homeless winds at the loose casement whine 
 Shrill ditties of the snow-roofed Apennine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 310 Now forth into the darkness all are gone, 
 But memory, still unsated, follows on, 
 Retracing step by step our homeward wa'ik, 
 With many a laugh among our serious talk, 
 Across the bridge where, on the dimpling tide, 
 
 315 The long red streamers from the windows glide, 
 Or the dim western moon 
 Rocks her skiff's image on the broad lagoon, 
 And Boston shows a soft Venetian side 
 In that Arcadian light when roof and tree, 
 
 320 Hard prose by daylight, dream in Italy ; 
 Or haply in the sky's cold chambers wide 
 Shivered the winter stars, while all below, 
 As if an end were come of human ill, 
 The world was wrapt in innocence of snow 
 
 325 And the cast-iron bay was blind and still ; 
 These were our poetry; in him perhaps 
 Science had barred the gate that lets in dream, 
 And he would rather count the perch and bream 
 Than with the current's idle fancy lapse; 
 
 330 And yet he had the poet's open eye 
 
 That takes a frank delight in all it sees, 
 Nor was earth voiceless, nor the mystic sky, 
 To him the life-long friend of fields and trees: 
 
 315. In walking over West Boston bridge at night one see* 
 the lights from the houses on Beacon Street reflected in thw 
 water below and seeming to make one long light w 1 are flame 
 and reflection join. 
 
AGASSiZ 409 
 
 Then came the prose of the suburban street, 
 
 335 Its silence deepened by our echoing feet, 
 
 And converse such as rambling hazard finds; 
 Then he who many cities knew and many minds 
 And men once world-noised, now mere Ossian 
 
 forms 
 Of misty memory, bade them live anew 
 
 340 As when they shared earth's manifold delight, 
 In shape, in gait, in voice, in gesture true, 
 And, with an accent heightening as he warms, 
 Would stop forgetful of the shortening night, 
 Drop my confining arm, and pour profuse 
 
 345 Much wordly wisdom kept for others' use, 
 Not for his own, for he was rash and free, 
 His purse or knowledge all men's, like the sea. 
 Still can I hear his voice's shrilling might 
 (With pauses broken, while the fitful spark 
 
 350 He blew more hotly rounded on the dark 
 To hint his features with a Rembrandt light) 
 Call Oken back, or Humboldt, or Lamarck, 
 Or Cuvier's taller shade, and many more 
 Whom he had seen, or knew from others' sight, 
 
 355 And make them men to me as ne'er before : 
 
 337. See note to p. 373, 1. 230. 
 
 338. Ossian was a fabulous Celtic warrior poet known chiefly 
 through the pretended poems of Ossian of James MacPhersou 
 who lived in Scotland the latter half of the eighteenth century. 
 There has been much controversy over the exact relation of 
 Macpherson to the poems, whicL are Scotch crags looming out 
 of Scotch mists. 
 
 352. Naturalists of renown. Oken was a remarkable and ec- 
 centric Swiss naturalist, 1779-1851; Humboldt a great natural- 
 ist and traveller, known by his Kosmos, 1769-1859 ; Lamarck, 
 1744-1829 ; Cuvier, in some respects the fa? ler of modern clas- 
 sit'cation, and Agassiz's teacher, 1769-1832 ill these were per- 
 sonally known to Agassiz. 
 
410 LO WELL. 
 
 Not seldom, as the undeadened fibre stirred 
 Of noble friendships knit beyond the sea, 
 German or French thrust by the lagging word, 
 For a good leash of mother-tongues had he. 
 360 At last, arrived at where our paths divide, 
 
 14 Good night ! " and, ere the distance grew too 
 
 wide, 
 il Good night! " again; and now with cheated ear 
 I half hear his who mine shall never hear. 
 
 Sometimes it seemed as if New England air 
 365 For his large lungs too parsimonious were, 
 As if those empty rooms of dogma drear 
 Where the ghost shivers of a faith austere 
 Counting the horns o'er of the Beast, 
 Still scaring those whose faith in it is least, 
 370 As if those snaps o' th' moral atmosphere 
 That sharpen all the needles of the East, 
 
 Had been to him like death, 
 Accustomed to draw Europe's freer breath 
 In a more stable element; 
 375 Nay, even our landscape, half the year morose, 
 Our practical horizon grimly pent, 
 Our air, sincere of ceremonious haze, 
 Forcing hard outlines mercilessly close, 
 Our social monotone of level days, 
 380 Might make our best seem banishment, 
 
 But it was nothing so ; 
 Haply his instinct might divine, 
 Beneath our drift of puritanic snow, 
 The marvel sensitive and fine 
 ^85 Of sanguinaria overrash to blow 
 
 And warm its shyness in an air benign; 
 
 Well might he prize truth's warranty and pledge 
 
AGASSI Z. 411 
 
 In the grim outcrop of our granite edge, 
 The Hebrew fervor flashing forth at need 
 
 390 In the stiff sons of Calvin's iron breed, 
 
 As prompt to give as skilled to win and keep; 
 But, though such intuitions might not cheer, 
 Yet life was good to him, and, there or here, 
 
 With that sufficing joy, the day was never cheap; 
 
 395 Thereto his mind was its own ample sphere, 
 
 And, like those buildings great that through the 
 
 year 
 Carry one temperature, his nature large 
 Made its own climate, nor could any marge 
 Traced by convention stay him from his bent: 
 
 400 He had a habitude of mountain air; 
 
 He brought wide outlook where he went, 
 
 And could on sunny uplands dwell 
 Of prospect sweeter than the pastures fair 
 High-hung of viny Neufchatel, 
 
 4.05 Nor, surely, did he miss 
 
 Some pale, imaginary bliss 
 
 Of earlier sights whose inner landscape still was Swiss. 
 
 V. 
 
 1. 
 
 I cannot think he wished so soon to die 
 With all his senses full of eager heat, 
 4,10 And rosy years that stood expectant by 
 
 To buckle the winged sandals on their feet, — 
 He that was friends with earth, and all her sweet 
 Took with both hands unsparingly: 
 Truly this life is precious to the root, 
 
 397. This is said of St. Peter's in Rome. 
 411. See note to p. 395, 1. 12. 
 
412 LOWELL, 
 
 415 And good the feel of grass beneath the foot; 
 To lie in buttercups and clover-bloom, 
 Tenants in common with the bees, 
 And watch the white clouds drift through gulfs of 
 
 trees, 
 Is better than long waiting in the tomb; 
 420 Only once more to feel the coming spring 
 
 As the birds feel it when it makes them sing, 
 
 Only once more to see the moon 
 Through leaf-fringed abbey-arches of the elms 
 Curve her mild sickle in the West 
 4.25 Sweet with the breath of hay-cocks, were a boon 
 Worth any promise of soothsayer realms 
 Or casual hope of being elsewhere blest; 
 
 To take December by the beard 
 And crush the creaking snow with springy foot, 
 430 While overhead the North's dumb streamers shoot, 
 Till Winter fawn upon the cheek endeared; 
 Then the long evening ends 
 Lingered by cozy chimney-nooks, 
 With high companionship of books, 
 435 Or slippered talk of friends 
 
 And sweet habitual looks, 
 Is better than to stop the ears with dust: 
 Too soon the spectre comes to say, " Thou must ! ' 
 
 2. 
 
 When toil-crooked hands are crost upon the breast, 
 4.40 They comfort us with sense of rest; 
 
 They must be glad to lie forever still; 
 
 Their work is ended with their day; 
 Another fills their room; 'tis the World's ancient way 
 
 Whether for good or ill; 
 145 But the deft spinners of the brain, 
 
 Who love each added day and find it gain, 
 
AGASSI Z. 413 
 
 Them overtakes the doom 
 To snap the half-grown flower upon the loom 
 (Trophy that was to be of life-long pain), 
 450 The thread no other skill can ever knit again. 
 
 'T was so with him, for he was glad to live, 
 'T was doubly so, for he left work begun ; 
 Could not this eagerness of Fate forgive 
 Till all the allotted flax was spun ? 
 455 It matters not: for go at night or noon, 
 
 A friend, whene'er he dies, has died too soon, 
 And, once we hear the hopeless He is dead. 
 So far as flesh hath knowledge, all is said. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I seem to see the black procession go : 
 460 That crawling prose of death too well I know, 
 
 The vulgar paraphrase of glorious woe; 
 
 I see it wind through that unsightly grove, 
 
 Once beautiful, but long defaced 
 
 With granite permanence of cockney taste 
 465 And all those grim disfigurements we love: 
 
 There, then, we leave him: Him? such costly 
 waste 
 
 Nature rebels at: and it is not true 
 Of those most precious parts of him we knew : 
 
 Could we be conscious but as dreamers be, 
 470 'T were sweet to leave this shifting life of tents 
 
 Sunk in the changeless calm of Deity; 
 
 Nay, to be mingled with the elements, 
 
 The fellow-servant of creative powers, 
 462. Mount Auburn cemetery in Cambridge, where Agassi* 
 
414 LOWELL. 
 
 Partaker in the solemn year's events, 
 475 To share the work of busy-fingered hours, 
 To be night's silent almoner of dew, 
 To rise again in plants and breathe and grow, 
 To stream as tides the oeean cavern through, 
 Or with the rapture of great winds to blow 
 480 About earth's shaken coignes, were not a fate 
 To leave us all-disconsolate; 
 Even endless slumber in the sweetening sod 
 Of charitable earth 
 That takes out all our mortal stains, 
 485 And makes us clearlier neighbors of the clod 
 
 Methinks were better worth 
 Than the poor fruit of most men's wakeful pains, 
 The heart's insatiable ache: 
 But such was not his faith, 
 490 Nor mine: it may be he had trod 
 
 Outside the plain old path of God thus spake. 
 But God to him was very God, 
 And not a visionary wraith 
 Skulking in murky corners of the mind, 
 495 And he was sure to be 
 
 Somehow, somewhere, imperishable as He, 
 Not with His essence mystically combined, 
 As some high spirits long, but whole and free, 
 A perfected and conscious Agassiz. 
 500 And such I figure him: the wise of old 
 
 Welcome and own him of their peaceful fold, 
 Not truly with the guild enrolled 
 Of him who seeking inward guessed 
 Diviner riddles than the rest, 
 505 And groping in the darks of thought 
 
 Touched the Great Hand and knew it not; 
 503. Plato. 
 
AGASSIZ. 415 
 
 He rather shares the daily light, 
 From reason's charier fountains won, 
 Of his great chief, the slow-paced Stagyrite, 
 510 And Cuvier clasps once more his long-lost son. 
 
 2. 
 
 The shape erect is prone : forever stilled 
 
 The winning tongue ; the forehead's high-piled 
 
 heap, 
 A cairn which every science helped to build, 
 Unvalued will its golden secrets keep : 
 
 515 He knows at last if Life or Death be best : 
 Wherever he be flown, whatever vest 
 The being hath put on which lately here 
 So many-friended was, so full of cheer 
 To make men feel the Seeker's noble zest, 
 
 520 We have not lost him all; he is not gone 
 To the dumb herd of them that wholly die ; 
 The beauty of his better self lives on 
 In minds he touched with fire, in many an eye 
 He trained to Truth's exact severity; 
 
 525 He was a Teacher: why be grieved for him 
 Who^e living word still stimulates the air ? 
 In endless files shall loving scholars come 
 The glow of his transmitted touch to share, 
 And trace his features with an eye less dim 
 
 530 Than ours whose sense familiar wont makes numb. 
 
 Florence, Italy, February, 1874. 
 
 509. Aristotle, so-called from his birthplace of Stagira in Ma- 
 cedonia. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 TO many readers the name of Emerson is that of 
 a philosophical prose writer, hard to be un- 
 derstood ; in time to come it will perhaps be won- 
 dered at that the introduction of his name in a 
 volume of American Poems should seem to require 
 an explanation or shadow of an apology ; it is likely 
 even that his philosophy will be read and welcomed 
 chiefly for those elements which it has in common 
 with his poetry. His life has been uneventful as 
 regards external change or adventure. It has been 
 passed mainly in Boston and Concord, Massachu- 
 setts. He was born at Boston, May 25, 1803. His 
 father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, 
 were all ministers, and, indeed, on both his father's 
 and mother's side he belongs to a continuous line 
 of ministerial descent from the seventeenth century. 
 At the time of his birth, his father, the Rev. Wil- 
 liam Emerson, was minister of the First Church 
 congregation, but on his death a few years after- 
 ward, Ralph Waldo Emerson, a boy of seven, wen, 
 to live in the old manse at Concord, where his grand 
 father had lived when the Concord fight occurred 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 417 
 
 The old manse was afterward the home at one time 
 of Hawthorne, who wrote there the stories which 
 he gathered into the volumes, Mosses from an Old 
 Manse. 
 
 Emerson was graduated at Harvard in 1821, and 
 after teaching a year or two gave himself to the 
 study of divinity. From 1827 to 1832 he preached 
 in Unitarian churches and was for four years a col- 
 league pastor in the Second Church in Boston. 
 He then left the ministry and has since devoted 
 himself to literature. He travelled abroad in 1833, 
 in 1847, and again in 1872, making friends among 
 the leading thinkers during his first journey, and 
 confirming the friendships when again in Europe ; 
 with the exception of these three journeys and oc- 
 casional lecturing tours in the United States, he 
 has lived quietly at Concord. 
 
 He had delivered several special addresses, and 
 in his early manhood was an important lecturer in 
 the Lyceum courses which were so popular, espe- 
 cially in New England, forty years ago, but his first 
 published book was Nature, in 1839. Subsequent 
 prose works have been his Essays, under that title, 
 and in several volumes with specific titles, Repre- 
 sentative Men and English Traits, which last em- 
 bodies the results of his first two visits to England. 
 
 He wrote poems when in college, but his first 
 publication was through The Dial, a, magazine es- 
 tablished in 1840, and the representative of a knot 
 vf men and women of whom Emerson was the ac- 
 knowledged or unacknowledged leader. The first 
 27 
 
418 EMERSON. 
 
 volume of his poems was published in 1847, and 
 included those by which he is best known, as The 
 Problem, The Sphinx, The Rhodora, The Humble 
 Bee, Hymn Sang at the Completion of the Concord 
 Monument. After the establishment of the Atlan- 
 tic Monthly in 1857 he contributed to it both prose 
 and poetry, and verses published in the early num- 
 bers, mere enigmas to some, profound revelations 
 to others, were fruitful of discussion and thought ; 
 his second volume of poems, May Day and other 
 Pieces, was not issued until 1867. Since then a 
 volume of his collected poetry has appeared, con- 
 taining most of those published in the two volumes, 
 and a few in addition. We are told, however, that 
 the published writings of Emerson bear but small 
 proportion to the unpublished. Many lectures have 
 been delivered, but not printed ; many poems writ- 
 ten, and a few read, which have never been pub- 
 lished. The inference from this, borne out by the 
 marks upon what has been published, is that Mr. 
 Emerson sets a high value upon literature, and is 
 jealous of the prerogative of the poet. He is fre- 
 quently called a seer, and this old word, indicating 
 etymologically its original intention, is applied well 
 ■o a poet who sees into nature and human life with 
 a spiritual power which has made him a marked 
 man in his own time, and one destined to an unri- 
 valled place in literature. He fulfils Wordsworth' 
 dues, — 
 
 u With an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things." 
 
1. 
 THE ADIRONDACK 
 
 A JOURNAL, 
 
 DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-TRAVELLERS IN AUGUST, 
 
 1858. 
 
 Wise and polite, — and if I drew 
 Their several portraits, you would own 
 Chaucer had no such worthy crew 
 Nor Boccace in Decameron. 
 
 We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our 
 
 friends, 
 Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks 
 Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach 
 The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach 
 5 We chose our boats ; each man a boat and guide, — 
 Ten men, ten guides, our company all told. 
 
 Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac, 
 With skies of benediction, to Round Lake, 
 Where all the sacred mountains drew around us, 
 o Tah&wus, Seward, Maclntyre, Baldhead, 
 And other Titans without muse or name. 
 Pleased with these grand 2ompanions, we glide 
 
 on, 
 Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of 
 
 hills, 
 And made our distance wider, boat from boat, 
 1 5 As each would hsar the oracle alone. 
 
420 EMERSON. 
 
 By the bright morn the gay flotilla slid 
 Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets, 
 Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel- 
 flower, 
 Through scented banks of lilies white and gold, 
 
 20 Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day, 
 On through the Upper Saranac, and up 
 Pere Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass 
 Winding through grassy shallows in and out, 
 Two creeping miles of rushes, pads, and sponge, 
 
 25 To Follansbee Water and the Lake of Loons. 
 
 Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed, 
 Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge 
 Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore. 
 A pause and council: then, where near the head 
 
 30 On the east a bay makes inward to the land 
 Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank, 
 And in the twilight of the forest noon 
 Wield the first axe these echoes ever heard, 
 We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts, 
 
 35 Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof, 
 Then struck a light, and kindled the camp-fire. 
 
 The wood was sovran with centennial trees — 
 Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir, 
 Linden and spruce. In strict society 
 40 Three conifers, white, pitch, and Norway pine, 
 Five-leaved, three-leaved, and two-leaved, grew 
 
 thereby. 
 Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth, 
 The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower. 
 
 37. Milton frequently employed the form sovran for sover- 
 eign, although in many editions the spelling has been changed 
 to the longer form. 
 
THE ADIRONDACS. 421 
 
 11 Welcome! " the wood god murmured through 
 the leaves, — ■ 
 45 u Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known 
 to me." 
 Evening drew on; stars peeped through maple- 
 boughs, 
 Which o'erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire. 
 Decayed millennial trunks, like moonlight flecks, 
 Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor. 
 
 50 Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft 
 In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed, 
 Lie here on hemlock boughs, like Sacs and Sioux, 
 And greet unanimous the joyful change. 
 So fast will Nature acclimate her sons, 
 
 55 Though late returning to her pristine ways. 
 Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold; 
 And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned, 
 Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds. 
 Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air 
 
 60 That circled freshly in their forest dress 
 
 Made them to boys again. Happier that they 
 Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind, 
 At the first mounting of the giant stairs. 
 No placard on these rocks warned to the polls, 
 
 65 No door-bell heralded a visitor, 
 
 No courier waits, no letter came or went, 
 Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or 
 
 sold ; 
 The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop, 
 The falling rain will spoil no holiday. 
 
 70 We were made freemen of the forest laws, 
 All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends, 
 Essaying nothing she cannot perform. 
 
422 EMERSON. 
 
 In Adirondac lakes, 
 At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded ; 
 
 75 Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make 
 His brief toilette : at night, or in the rain, 
 He dons a surcoat which he doffs at morn : 
 A paddle in the right hand, or an oar, 
 And in the left, a gun, his needful arms. 
 
 80 By turns we praised the stature of our guides, 
 Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill 
 To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp, 
 To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs 
 Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down : 
 
 85 Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount, 
 And wit to trap or take him in his lair. 
 Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent, 
 In winter, lumberers ; in summer, guides ; 
 Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired 
 
 90 Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to 
 eve. 
 
 Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen ! 
 No city airs or arts pass current here. 
 Your rank is all reversed : let men of cloth 
 Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls : 
 95 They are the doctors of the wilderness, 
 And we the low-prized laymen. 
 In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test 
 Which few can put on with impunity. 
 What make you, master, fumbling at the oar ? 
 100 Will you catch crabs ? Truth tries pretension 
 here. 
 The sallow knows the basket-maker's thumb; 
 The oar, the guide's. Dare you accept the tasks 
 He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes, 
 Tell the sun's time, determine the true north, 
 
THE ADIRONDACS. 423 
 
 I05 Or stumbling on through vast self-similar woods 
 To thread by night the nearest way to camp ? 
 
 Ask you, how went the hours ? 
 All day we swept the lake, searched every cove, 
 North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay, 
 
 1 10 Watching when the loud dogs should drive in 
 deer, 
 Or whipping its rough surface for a trout ; 
 Or bathers, diving from the rock at noon ; 
 Challenging Echo by our guns and cries ; 
 Or listening to the laughter of the loon ; 
 
 115 Or, in the evening twilight's latest red, 
 Beholding the procession of the pines ; 
 Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack, 
 In the boat's bows, a silent night-hunter 
 Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds 
 
 120 Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist. 
 
 Hark to that muffled roar ! a tree in the woods 
 Is fallen : but hush ! it has not scared the buck 
 
 114. Thoreau, in Walden, has an admirable account of the 
 loon and its habits. " His usual note was this demoniac laugh- 
 ter, yet somewhat like that of a water-fowl ; but occasionally, 
 when he had balked me most successfully and come up a long 
 way off, he uttered a long drawn, unearthly howl, probably 
 more like that of a wolf than any bird ; as when a beast puts 
 his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This was his 
 looning, — perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, 
 making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he 
 laughed in derision at my efforts, confident of his own re- 
 lources," Page 254. 
 
 116. One of Mr. Emerson's companions in this excursion, 
 Stillman the artist, painted The Procession of (he Pines, the as- 
 oect, so familiar to the woodman, of a line of pines upon a hill- 
 top outlined against the evening sky, and seeming to be march- 
 mg solemnly. 
 
424 EMERSON. 
 
 Who stands astonished at the meteor light, 
 Then turns to bound away, — is it too late ? 
 
 [25 Sometimes we tried our rifles at a mark, 
 
 Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five; 
 
 Sometimes our wits at sally and retort, 
 
 With laughter sudden as the crack of rille ; 
 
 Or parties scaled the near acclivities 
 130 Competing seekers of a rumored lake, 
 
 Whose unauthenticated waves we named 
 
 Lake Probability, — our carbuncle, 
 
 Long sought, not found. 
 
 Two Doctors in the camp 
 Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout's brain, 
 
 135 Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew, 
 
 Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow, and moth 
 Insatiate skill in water or in air 
 Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss ; 
 The while, one leaden pot of alcohol 
 
 140 Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds. 
 
 Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants, 
 Orchis and gentian, fern, and long whip-scirpus, 
 Rosy polygonum, lake-margin's pride, 
 Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge, and 
 moss, 
 
 r 45 Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls. 
 Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed, 
 The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker 
 Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp 
 As water poured through hollows of the hills 
 
 [50 To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets, 
 So Nature shed all beauty lavishly 
 From her redundant horn. 
 132. See Hawthorne's story of The Great Carbuncle. 
 
THE ADIRONDACS. 425 
 
 Lords of this realm, 
 Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day 
 Rounded by hours where each outdid the last 
 
 155 In miracles of pomp, we must be proud, 
 As if associates of the sylvan gods. 
 We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac, 
 So pure the Alpine element we breathed, 
 So light, so lofty pictures came and went. 
 
 160 We trode on air, contemned the distant town, 
 Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned 
 That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge, 
 And how we should come hither with our sons, 
 Hereafter, — willing they, and more adroit. 
 
 165 Hard fare, hard bed, and comic misery, — 
 The midge, the blue-fly, and the mosquito 
 Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands: 
 But, on the second day, we heed them not, 
 Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries, 
 
 170 Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names. 
 For who defends our leafy tabernacle 
 From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd, — 
 Who but the midge, mosquito, and the fly, 
 Which past endurance sting the tender cit, 
 
 175 But which we learn to scatter with a smudge, 
 Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn ? 
 
 Our foaming ale we drank from hunters' pans, 
 Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave 
 Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread ; 
 180 All ate like abbots, and, if any missed 
 
 Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss 
 With hunter's appetite and peals of mirth. 
 And Stillman, our guides' guide, and Commodore, 
 183. Stillman left his own record of this excursion in a prose 
 
426 EMERSON. 
 
 Crusoe, Crusader, Pius iEneas, said aloud, 
 185 u Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating 
 Food indigestible : " — then murmured some, 
 Others applauded him who spoke the truth. 
 
 Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought 
 Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday 
 
 193 'Mid all the hints and glories of the home. 
 For who can tell what sudden privacies 
 Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry 
 Of scholars furloughed from their tasks, and let 
 Into this Oreads' fended Paradise, 
 
 195 As chapels in the city's thoroughfares, 
 
 Whither gaunt Labor slips to wipe his brow, 
 And meditate a moment on Heaven's rest. 
 Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke 
 To each apart, lifting her lovely shows 
 
 200 To spiritual lessons pointed home. 
 
 And as through dreams in watches of the night, 
 So through all creatures in their form and ways 
 Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant. 
 Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense 
 
 205 Inviting to new knowledge, one with old. 
 
 Hark to that petulant chirp I what ails the war** 
 
 bier? 
 Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye. 
 Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird, 
 Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light, 
 
 210 Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky ? 
 
 And presently the sky is changed ; O World ! 
 What pictures and what harmonies are thine! 
 
 paper, The Subjective of It, published in The Atlantic Monthly 
 Cor December, 1858. In that paper he speaks of the procession 
 of the pines. 
 
THE ADIRONDACS. 427 
 
 The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene, 
 So like the soul of me, what if 't were me? 
 
 315 A melancholy better than all mirth. 
 
 Comes the sweet sadness at the retrospect, 
 Or at the foresight of obscurer years? 
 Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory, 
 Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty 
 
 220 Superior to all its gaudy skirts. 
 
 And, that no day of life may lack romance, 
 The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down 
 A private beam into each several heart. 
 Daily the bending skies solicit man, 
 
 225 The seasons chariot him from this exile, 
 
 The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair, 
 The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along, 
 Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights 
 Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home. 
 
 230 With a vermilion pencil mark the day 
 When of our little fleet three cruising skiffs 
 Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls 
 Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront 
 Two of our mates returning with swift oars. 
 
 235 One held a printed journal waving high 
 Caught from a late-arriving traveller, 
 Big with great news, and shouted the report 
 For which the world had waited, now firm fact, 
 Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea, 
 
 240 And landed on our coast, and pulsating 
 With ductile fire. Loud, exulting cries 
 From boat to boat, and to the echoes round, 
 
 239. It will be remembered that it was in August, 1858, when 
 the first Atlantic Cable was laid and the first message trans- 
 mitted, proving the feasibility of the connection, though the 
 table was imperfect, and a second one became necessary. 
 
428 EMERSON. 
 
 Greet the glad miracle. Thought's new-found 
 
 path 
 Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways, 
 
 245 Match God's equator with a zone of art, 
 And lift man's public action to a height 
 Worthy the enormous cloud of witnesses, 
 When linked hemispheres attest his deed. 
 We have few moments in the longest life 
 
 250 Of such delight and wonder as there grew, — 
 Nor yet unsuited to that solitude : 
 A burst of joy, as if we told the fact 
 To ears intelligent ; as if gray rock 
 And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know 
 
 255 This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind; 
 As if we men were talking in a vein 
 Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs, 
 And a prime end of the most subtle element 
 Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing 
 caves ! 
 
 260 Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops, 
 Let them hear well! 't is theirs as much as ours. 
 
 A spasm throbbing through the pedestals 
 Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent, 
 Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill 
 
 ?65 To be a brain, or serve the brain of man. 
 The lightning has run masterless too long ; 
 He must to school, and learn his verb and noun, 
 And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage, 
 Spelling with guided tongue man's messages 
 
 270 Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea. 
 And yet I marked, even in the manly joy 
 Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat, 
 (Perchance I erred,) a shade of discontent; 
 Or was it for mankind a generous shame, 
 
THE ADIRONDACS. 429 
 
 Z75 As of a luck not quite legitimate, 
 
 Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part? 
 Was it a college pique of town and gown, 
 As one within whose memory it burned 
 That not academicians, but some lout, 
 
 280 Found ten years since the Calif ornian gold? 
 And now, again, a hungry company 
 Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade, 
 Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools 
 Of science, not from the philosophers, 
 
 285 Had won the brightest laurel of all time. 
 
 *T was always thus, and will be ; hand and head 
 Are ever rivals : but, though this be swift, 
 The other slow, — this the Prometheus, 
 And that the Jove, — yet, howsoever hid, 
 
 290 It was from Jove the other stole his fire, 
 
 And, without Jove, the good had never been. 
 It is not Iroquois or cannibals, 
 But ever the free race with front sublime, 
 And these instructed by their wisest too, 
 
 295 Who do the feat, and lift humanity. 
 
 Let not him mourn who best entitled was, 
 Nay, mourn not one: let him exult, 
 Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plain. 
 And water it with wine, nor watch askance 
 
 300 Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit : 
 Enough that mankind eat, and are refreshed 
 
 We flee away from cities, but we bring 
 The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers, 
 Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes ot ex- 
 perts. 
 I05 We praise the guide, we praise the forest life; 
 But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore 
 Of books and arts and trained experiment. 
 
430 EMERSON. 
 
 Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz ? 
 
 Oh no, not we I Witness the shout that shook 
 
 310 Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail 
 The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge 
 Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears 
 From a log-cabin stream Beethoven's notes 
 On the piano, played with master's hand. 
 
 315 " Well done ! " he cries: " the bear is kept at bay 
 The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire; 
 All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold, 
 This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall, 
 This wild plantation will suffice to chase. 
 
 320 Now speed the gay celerities of art, 
 What in the desert was impossible 
 Within four walls is possible again, — 
 Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill, 
 Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife 
 
 325 Of keen competing youths, joined or alone 
 To outdo each other and extort applause. 
 Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep. 
 Twirl the old wheels ! Time takes fresh start again, 
 On for a thousand years of genius more. ,, 
 
 330 The holidays were fruitful, but must end; 
 
 One August evening had a cooler breath ; 
 
 Into each mind intruding duties crept; 
 
 Under the cinders burned the fires of home ; 
 
 Nay, letters found us in our paradise; 
 ^35 So in the gladness of the new event 
 
 We struck our camp, and left the happy hills. 
 
 The fortunate star that rose on us sank not; 
 
 The prodigal sunshine rested on the land, 
 
 The rivers gambolled onward to the sea, 
 540 And Nature the inscrutable and mute, 
 
 Permitted on her infinite repose 
 
THE TITMOUSE. 431 
 
 Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons, 
 As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE TITMOUSE. 
 
 You shall not be overbold 
 When you deal with arctic cold, 
 As late I found my lukewarm blood 
 Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
 5 How should I fight? my foeman fine 
 Has million arms to one of mine: 
 East, west, for aid I looked in vain, 
 East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
 Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; 
 lo Must borrow his winds who there would come. 
 Up and away for life I be fleet ! — 
 The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, 
 Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, 
 Curdles the blood to the marble bones, 
 
 343. The Sphinx in classical mythology was a monster having 
 a human head, a lion's body, and sometimes fabled as winged. 
 J; used to propose a question to the Thebans and murder all who 
 tould not guess it. The riddle was, — 
 
 11 What goes on four feet, ou two feet, and three, 
 But the more feet it goes on the weaker it be ? " 
 
 Edipus gave the answer that it was man, going on four feet as 
 a child, and when old using a staff which made the third foot. 
 But the Sphinx's riddle in the old poetry and in the serious 
 modern acceptation is nothing .ess than the whole problem of 
 tuman life. 
 
432 EMERSON. 
 
 15 Tugs at the heart- strings, numbs the sense, 
 And hems in life with narrowing fence. 
 Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, 
 The punctual stars will vigil keep, 
 Embalmed by purifying cold, 
 
 20 The winds shall sing their dead-march old, 
 The snow is no ignoble shroud, 
 The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 
 
 Softly, — but this way fate was pointing, 
 'T was coming fast to such anointing, 
 
 25 When piped a tiny voice hard by, 
 Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
 Ckic-chicadeedee I saucy note 
 Out of sound heart and merry throat, 
 As if it said, " Good day, good sir 1 
 
 30 Fine afternoon, old passenger! 
 Happy to meet you in these places, 
 Where January brings few faces." 
 
 This poet, though he live apart, 
 Moved by his hospitable heart, 
 
 35 Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, 
 To do the honors of his court, 
 As fits a feathered lord of land ; 
 Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 
 Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 
 
 40 Prints his small impress on the snow, 
 Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 
 Head downward, clinging to the spray. 
 
 Here was this atom in full breath, 
 Hurling defiance at vast death; 
 45 This scrap of valor just for play 
 
 Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, 
 
THE TITMOUSE. 433 
 
 As if to shame my weak behavior ; 
 
 I greeted loud my little saviour, 
 
 II You pet! what dost here? and what for ? 
 50 In these woods, thy small Labrador, 
 
 At this pinch, wee San Salvador! 
 
 What fire burns in that little chest 
 
 So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? 
 
 Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; 
 55 Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 
 
 Why are not diamonds black and gray, 
 
 To ape thy dare-devil array? 
 
 And I affirm, the spacious North 
 
 Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 
 60 I think no virtue goes with size ; 
 
 The reason of all cowardice 
 
 Is, that men are overgrown, 
 
 And, to be valiant, must come down 
 
 To the titmouse dimension.' ' 
 
 65 'T is good- will makes intelligence, 
 And I began to catch the sense 
 Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors 
 In the great woods, on prairie floors. 
 I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the sea, 
 
 70 I too have a hole in a hollow tree; 
 And I like less when Summer beats 
 With stifling beams on these retreats, 
 Than noontide twilights which snow makes 
 With tempest of the blinding flakes. 
 
 75 For well the soul, if stout within, 
 Can arm impregnably the skin; 
 And polar frost my frame defied, 
 Made of the air that blows outside." 
 
 78. The titmouse's frame made of the outer air to his fancy — 
 10 light, free, and strong as it is — can well defy polar frost. 
 
134 EMERSON. 
 
 With glad remembrance of my debt, 
 
 80 I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! 
 When here again thy pilgrim comes, 
 He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
 Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, 
 Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; 
 
 85 The Providence that is most large 
 
 Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 
 Helps who for their own need are strong, 
 And the sky dotes on cheerful song. 
 Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
 
 90 O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; 
 For men mis-hear thy call in spring, 
 As 't would accost some frivolous wing, 
 Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be ! 
 And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! 
 
 95 I think old CaBsar must have heard 
 In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, 
 And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
 Borrowed thy battle- numbers bold. 
 And I will write our annals new, 
 loo And thank thee for a better clew, 
 
 I, who dreamed not when I came here 
 To find the antidote of fear, 
 Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
 Pcean ! Veni, vidi, vici. 
 
 104 . Plutarch in his Life of Julius Caesar, relates that, after 
 Caesar's victory over Pharnaces at Zela in Asia Minor, " when 
 he gave a friend of his at Rome an account of this action, to ex- 
 press the promptness and rapidity of it, he used three words, I 
 came, saw, and conquered, which in Latin having all the same 
 cadence, carry with them a very suitable air of brevity." 
 
MONADNOC. 435 
 
 in. 
 
 MONADNOC. 
 
 Thousand minstrels woke within me, 
 M Our music 's in the hills; " — 
 
 Gayest pictures rose to win me, 
 Leopard-colored rills. 
 5 "Up! — If thou knew'st who calls 
 
 To twilight parks of beech and pine, 
 
 High over the river intervals, 
 
 Above the ploughman's highest line, 
 
 Over the owner's farthest walls ! 
 lo Up I where the airy citadel 
 
 O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell! 
 
 Let not unto the stones the Day 
 
 Her lily and rose, her sea and land display; 
 
 Read the celestial sign ' 
 15 Lo! the south answers to the north; 
 
 Bookworm, break this sloth urbane; 
 
 A greater spirit bids thee forth 
 
 Than the gray dreams which thee detain. 
 
 10. Any one who has stood upon the summit of Monadnoc, 
 in Cheshire County, southern New Hampshire, would feel the 
 significance not only of the surging landscape's swell, but of 
 the airy citadel, since the crest of the mountain is a pinnacle of 
 stone, built up almost like a fortress. 
 
 12. That is, let not the insensate stones be the only recipients 
 of the splendors which the light reveals. 
 
 16. The use of urbane is a recall of *he first meaning of the 
 word which is more distinct *n urban. As a city (urbs) gives 
 politeness, urbanity, and the country (rus) gives rusticity, here 
 the sloth urbane is the indolence as regards nature which clings 
 ♦o a person too confined within city limits of interest. 
 
436 EMERSON. 
 
 Mark how the climbing Oreads 
 20 Beckon thee to their arcades! 
 
 Youth, for a moment free as they, 
 
 Teach thy feet to feel the ground, 
 
 Ere yet arrives the wintry day 
 
 When Time thy feet has bound. 
 25 Take the bounty of thy birth, 
 
 Taste the lordship of the earth." 
 
 I heard, and I obeyed, — 
 Assured that he who made the claim, 
 Well known, but loving not a name, 
 3c Was not to be gainsaid. 
 
 Ere yet the summoning voice was still, 
 
 I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill. 
 
 From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed 
 
 Like ample banner flung abroad 
 35 To all the dwellers in the plains 
 
 Round about, a hundred miles, 
 
 With salutation to the sea, and to the bordering 
 isles. 
 
 In his own loom's garment dressed, 
 
 By his proper bounty blessed, 
 40 Fast abides this constant giver, 
 
 Pouring many a cheerful river; 
 
 To far eyes, an aerial isle 
 
 Unploughed, which finer spirits pile, 
 
 Which morn and crimson evening paint 
 45 For bard, for lover, and for saint ; 
 
 29. Though we give it no name, the longing for the free coun- 
 try and the mountain height is no stranger to men's hearts. 
 
 33. See note to p. 167, 1. 952. 
 
 43. The rocky summit is the base upon which masses of clouds 
 *ro piled high. 
 
MONADNOC. 487 
 
 The people's pride, the country's core, 
 
 Inspirer, prophet evermore ; 
 
 Pillar which God aloft had set 
 
 So that men might it not forget; 
 50 It should be their life's ornament, 
 
 And mix itself with each event ; 
 
 Gauge and calendar and dial, 
 
 Weatherglass and chemic phial, 
 
 Garden of berries, perch of birds, 
 55 Pasture of pool-haunting herds, 
 
 Graced by each change of sum untold, 
 
 Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold. 
 
 The Titan heeds his sky-affairs, 
 Rich rents and wide alliance shares ; 
 
 60 Mysteries of color daily laid 
 By the sun in light and shade; 
 And sweet varieties of chance, 
 And the mystic seasons' dance; 
 And thief-like step of liberal hours 
 
 65 Thawing snow-drift into flowers. 
 
 Oh, wondrous craft" of plant and stone 
 By eldest science wrought and shown I 
 *' Happy," I said, " whose home is here ! 
 Fair fortunes to the mountaineer ! 
 
 70 Boon Nature to his poorest shed 
 
 Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread." 
 Intent, I searched the region round, 
 And in low hut my monarch found: — 
 Woe is me for my hope's downfall I 
 
 75 Is yonder squalid peasant all 
 
 That this proud nursery could breed 
 For God's vicegerency and stead ? 
 
 TO. Compare Milton's Nature boon, in Paradise Lost, iv. 242. 
 
*38 EMERSON. 
 
 Time out of mind, this forge of ores; 
 
 Quarry of spars in mountain pores; 
 80 Old cradle, hunting-ground, and bier 
 
 Of wolf and otter, bear and deer ; 
 
 Well-built abode of many a race ; 
 
 Tower of observance searching space ; 
 
 Factory of river and of rain ; 
 8$ Link in the alps' globe-girding chain; 
 
 By million changes skilled to tell 
 
 What in the Eternal standeth well, 
 
 And what obedient Nature can ; — 
 
 Is this colossal talisman 
 90 Kindly to plant, and blood, and kind, 
 
 But speechless to the master's mind ? 
 
 I thought to find the patriots 
 
 In whom the stock of freedom roots; 
 
 To myself I oft recount 
 95 Tales of many a famous mount, — 
 
 Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells; 
 
 Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs, and Tells. 
 
 Here Nature shall condense her powers, 
 
 Her music, and her meteors, 
 100 And lifting man to the blue deep 
 
 Where stars their perfect courses keep, 
 
 Like wise preceptor, lure his eye 
 
 To sound the science of the sky, 
 
 And carry learning to its height 
 105 Of untried power and sane delight : 
 
 The Indian cheer, the frosty skies, 
 Rear purer wits, inventive eyes, — 
 
 96. The places of this line have their heroes in the next, bards 
 m Wales, Rob Roy in Scotland, William Tell in Uri ; Scander- 
 beg (Iskander-beg, i. e., Alexander the Great) is the name given 
 Dy the Tnrks to the Robin Hood of Epirus, George Castriota, 
 U14-U67. 
 
MONADNOC. 439 
 
 Eyes that frame cities where none be, 
 
 And hands that stablish what these see; 
 1 10 And by the moral of his place 
 
 Hint summits of heroic grace ; 
 
 Man in these crags a fastness find 
 
 To fight pollution of the mind; 
 
 In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong, 
 115 Adhere like this foundation strong, 
 
 The insanity of towns to stem 
 
 With simpleness for stratagem. 
 
 But if the brave old mould is broke, 
 
 And end in churls the mountain folk, 
 120 In tavern cheer and tavern joke, 
 
 Sink, O mountain, in the swamp! 
 
 Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp ! 
 
 Perish like leaves, the highland breed ; 
 
 No sire survive, no son succeed! 
 
 125 Soft! let not the offended muse 
 
 Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse. 
 
 Many hamlets sought I then, 
 
 Many farms of mountain men. 
 
 Rallying round a parish steeple 
 130 Nestle warm the highland people, 
 
 Coarse and boisterous, yet mild, 
 
 Strong as giant, slow as child. 
 
 Sweat and season are their arts, 
 
 Their talismans are ploughs and carts; 
 135 And well the youngest can command 
 
 Honey from the frozen land; 
 
 With clover heads the swamp adorn, 
 
 Change the running sand to corn ; 
 
 For wolf and fox bring lowing herds, 
 140 And for cold mosses, cream and curdsj 
 
 Weave wood to canisters and mats; 
 
 Drain sweet maple juice in vats. 
 
440 EMERSON. 
 
 No bird is safe that cuts the air 
 
 From their rifle or their snare; 
 145 No fish, in river or in lake, 
 
 But their long hands it thence will take; 
 
 Whilst the country's flinty face, 
 
 Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays, 
 
 To fill the hollows, sink the hills, 
 150 Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and millo 
 
 And fit the bleak and howling waste 
 
 For homes of virtue, sense, and taste. 
 
 The World-soul knows his own affair, 
 
 Forelooking, when he would prepare 
 155 For the next ages, men of mould 
 
 Well embodied, well ensouled, 
 
 He cools the present's fiery glow, 
 
 Sets the life-pulse strong but slow : 
 
 Bitter winds and fasts austere 
 160 His quarantines and grottos, where 
 
 He slowly cures decrepit flesh, 
 
 And brings it infantile and fresh. 
 
 Toil and tempest are the toys 
 
 And games to breathe his stalwart boys: 
 165 They bide their time, and well can prov 
 
 If need were, their line from Jove; 
 
 Of the same stuff, and so allayed, 
 
 As that whereof the sun is made, 
 
 And of the fibre, quick and strong, 
 170 Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song. 
 
 Now in sordid weeds they sleep, 
 In dulness now their secret keep; 
 Yet, will you learn our ancient speech, 
 These the masters who can teach. 
 
 153. See Emerson's poem of the World-Sovl. 
 
MONADNOC. 441 
 
 175 Fourscore or a hundred words 
 All their vocal muse affords; 
 But they turn them in a fashion 
 Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passion. 
 I can spare the college bell, 
 
 180 And the learned lecture, well ; 
 Spare the clergy and libraries, 
 Institutes and dictionaries, 
 For what hardy Saxon root 
 Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot. 
 
 185 Rude poets of the tavern hearth, 
 Squandering your unquoted mirth, 
 Which keeps the ground, and never soars, 
 While Jake retorts, and Reuben roars: 
 Scoff of yeoman strong and stark, 
 
 190 Goes like bullet to its mark ; 
 While the solid curse and jeer 
 Never baulk the waiting ear. 
 
 On the summit as I stood, 
 O'er the floor of plain and flood 
 195 Seemed to me, the towering hill 
 Was not altogether still, 
 But a quiet sense conveyed ; 
 If I err not, thus it said: — 
 
 175. M The vocabulary of a rich and long-cultivated language 
 like the English may be roughly estimated at about one hun- 
 dred thousand words (although this excludes a great deal which, 
 if * English' were understood in its widest sense, would have to 
 be counted in); but thirty thousand is a very large estimate for 
 the number ever used, in writing or speaking, by a well-educated 
 man ; three to five thousand, it has been carefully estimated, 
 cover the ordinary need of cultivated intercourse; and the num- 
 ber acquired by persons of lowest training and narrowest in- 
 formation is considerably less than this." The Life and Growth 
 if Lanyuaye, by W. D. Whitney, p. 26. 
 
442 EMERSON. 
 
 "Many feet in summer seek, 
 200 Oft, my far-appearing peak ; 
 
 In the dreaded winter time, 
 
 None save dappling shadows climb, 
 
 Under clouds, my lonely head, 
 
 Old as the sun, old almost as the shade. 
 205 And comest thou 
 
 To see strange forest and new snow, 
 
 And tread uplifted land ? 
 
 And leavest thou thy lowland race, 
 
 Here amid clouds to stand? 
 210 And wouldst be my companion, 
 
 Where I gaze, and still shall gaze, 
 
 Through hoarding nights and spending days, 
 
 When forests fall, and man is gone, 
 
 Over tribes and over times, 
 215 At the burning Lyre, 
 
 Nearing me, 
 
 With its stars of northern fire, 
 
 In many a thousand years? 
 
 14 Ahl welcome, if thou bring 
 220 My secret in thy brain; 
 
 To mountain-top may Muse's wing 
 
 With good allowance strain. 
 
 Gentle pilgrim, if thou know 
 
 The gamut old of Pan, 
 225 And how the hills began, 
 
 The frank blessings of the hill 
 
 Fall on thee, as fall they will. 
 
 44 Let him heed who can and will; 
 Enchantment fixed me here 
 230 To stand the hurts of time, until 
 In mightier chant I disappear. 
 
MONADNOC. 443 
 
 " If thou trowest 
 
 How the chemic eddies play, 
 
 Pole to pole, and what they say ; 
 235 And that these gray crags 
 
 Not on crags are hung, 
 
 But beads are of a rosary 
 
 On prayer and music strung; 
 
 And, credulous, through the granite seeming, 
 240 Seest the smile of Reason beaming ; — 
 
 Can thy style-discerning eye 
 
 The hidden-working Builder spy, 
 
 Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din, 
 
 With hammer soft as snowflake's flight; — 
 245 Knowest thou this ? 
 
 O pilgrim, wandering not amiss I 
 
 Already my rocks lie light, 
 
 And soon my cone will spin. 
 
 14 For the world was built in order, 
 
 250 And the atoms march in tune ; 
 
 Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder, 
 The sun obeys them, and the moon. 
 Orb and atom forth they prance, 
 When they hear from far the rune, 
 
 255 None so backward in the troop, 
 When the music and the dance 
 Reach his place and circumstance, 
 But knows the sun-creating sound, 
 And, though a pyramid, will bound. 
 
 260 " Monadnoc is a mountain strong, 
 Tall and good my kind among ; 
 But well I know, no mountain can, 
 Zion or Meru, measure with man. 
 
 263. Meru is a fabulous mountain in the centre of the world, 
 %ighty thousand leagues high, the abode of Vishnu, and a per- 
 
444 EMERSON. 
 
 For it is on zodiacs writ, 
 265 Adamant is soft to wit: 
 
 And when the greater comes again 
 With my secret in his brain, 
 
 I shall pass, as glides my shadow 
 Daily over hill and meadow. 
 
 270 " Through all time, in light, in gloom t 
 
 Well I hear the approaching feet 
 
 On the flinty pathway beat 
 
 Of him that cometh, and shall come ; 
 
 Of him who shall as lightly bear 
 275 My daily load of woods and streams, 
 
 As doth this round sky-cleaving boat 
 
 Which never strains its rocky beams ; 
 
 Whose timbers, as they silent float, 
 
 Alps and Caucasus uprear, 
 280 And the long Alleghanies here, 
 
 And all town-sprinkled lands that be, 
 
 Sailing through stars with all their history. 
 
 II Every morn I lift my head, 
 See New England underspread, 
 
 285 South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound 
 
 From Katskill east to the sea-bound. 
 
 Anchored fast for many an age, 
 
 I await the bard and sage, 
 
 Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed, 
 290 Shall string Monadnoc like a bead. 
 
 feet paradise. It may be termed the Hindu Olympus. Thew 
 lines are in the spirit of the German philosopher Hegel's dictum 
 that one thought of man outweighed all nature. 
 
 276. In this bold figure the earth, with its mountains and 
 town-sprinkled lands, is made the image of the lofty mind which 
 dwells among the higher thoughts, and carries the mountain in 
 ts hands as a very little thing. 
 
MONADNOC. 445 
 
 Comes that cheerful troubadour, 
 
 This mound shall throb his face before, 
 
 As when, with inward fires and pain, 
 
 It rose a bubble from the plain. 
 295 When he cometh, I shall shed, 
 
 From this wellspring in my head, 
 
 Fountain-drop of spicier worth 
 
 Than all vintage of the earth. 
 
 There 's fruit upon my barren soil 
 300 Costlier far than wine or oil. 
 
 There 's a berry blue and gold, — 
 
 Autumn-ripe, its juices hold 
 
 Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart, 
 
 Asia's rancor, Athens' art, 
 305 Slowsure Britain's secular might, 
 
 And the German's inward sight. 
 
 I will give my son to eat 
 
 Best of Pan's immortal meat, 
 
 Bread to eat, and juice to drain, 
 310 So the coinage of his brain 
 
 Shall not be forms of stars, but stars, 
 
 Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars. 
 
 He comes, but not of that race bred 
 
 Who daily climb my specular head. 
 315 Oft as morning wreathes my scarf, 
 
 Fled the last plumule of the Dark, 
 
 Pants up hither the spruce clerk 
 
 From South Cove and City Wharf. 
 
 I take him up my rugged sides, 
 320 Half-repentant, scant of breath, — 
 
 Bead-eyes my granite chaos show, 
 
 il5. The scarf is the vesture of the mountain, and the light 
 if the morning, revealing it, may be said to wind it about the 
 mountain ; or it may be the wreathing vapor. 
 
 321. I show the little clerk with his bead-eyes my granite 
 thaos and the glittering quartz which is my midsummer snow. 
 
446 EMERSON. 
 
 And my midsummer snow; 
 
 Open the daunting map beneath, — 
 
 All his county, sea and land, 
 325 Dwarfed to measure of his hand; 
 
 His day's ride is a furlong space, 
 
 His city-tops a glimmering haze. 
 
 I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding : 
 
 * See there the grim gray rounding 
 330 Of the bullet of the earth 
 
 Whereon ye sail, 
 
 Tumbling steep 
 
 In the uncontinented deep.' 
 
 He looks on that, and he turns pale. 
 335 'Tis even so, this treacherous kite, 
 
 Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere, 
 
 Thoughtless of its anxious freight, 
 
 Plunges eyeless on forever ; 
 
 And he, poor parasite, 
 340 Cooped in a ship he cannot steer, — 
 
 Who is the captain he knows not, 
 
 Port or pilot trows not, — 
 
 Risk or ruin he must share. 
 
 I scowl on him with my cloud, 
 345 With my north wind chill his blood ; 
 
 I lame him, clattering down the rocks ; 
 
 And to live he is in fear. 
 
 Then, at last, I let him down 
 
 Once more into his dapper town, 
 
 329. The small-souled man whom the mountain is jeering ia 
 bidden scan the horizon and see the immensity of the universe 
 in which his little earth is rolling. The petty soul trembles be- 
 fore this vastness as the looked for mighty one was to compre- 
 hend and weigh it all in his balances. The contrast is between 
 the blind animal-man, overpowered by nature, and the god- ike 
 ioul-man serenely ruling nature. 
 
MONADNOC. 447 
 
 350 To chatter, frightened, to his clan, 
 And forget me if he can." 
 
 As in the old poetic fame 
 
 The gods are blind and lame, 
 
 And the simular despite 
 355 Betrays the more abounding might. 
 
 So call not waste that barren cone 
 
 Above the floral zone, 
 
 Where forests starve : 
 
 It is pure use ; — 
 360 What sheaves like those which here we glean and 
 bind 
 
 Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse ? 
 
 Ages are thy days, 
 
 Thou grand affirmer of the present tense. 
 
 And type of permanence ! 
 365 Firm ensign of the fatal Being, 
 
 Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief, 
 
 That will not bide the seeing ! 
 
 Hither we bring 
 
 Our insect miseries to thy rocks ; 
 370 And the whole flight, with folded wing, 
 
 Vanish, and end their murmuring, — 
 
 Vanish beside these dedicated blocks, 
 
 Which who can tell what mason laid ? 
 
 Spoils of a front none need restore, 
 375 Replacing frieze* and architrave; — 
 
 Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave; 
 
 362. Fame, common story. 
 
 374. In remote allusion to the removal to England of the Elgin 
 marbles from the Parthenon at Athens; there was much discus- 
 Bion as to the right of England to these spoils, which were granted 
 by the Turkish government, and a murmur in Greece after in- 
 4ependence was obtained, that they should be restored. 
 
448 EMERSON. 
 
 Still is the haughty pile erect 
 Of the old building Intellect. 
 
 Complement of human kind, 
 380 Having us at vantage still, 
 
 Our sumptuous indigence, 
 
 O barren mound, thy plenties fill ! 
 
 We fool and prate ; 
 
 Thou art silent and sedate. 
 385 To myriad kinds and times one sense 
 
 The constant mountain doth dispense ; 
 
 Shedding on all its snows and leaves, 
 
 One joy it joys, one grief it grieves. 
 
 Thou seest, O watchman tall, 
 390 Our towns and races grow and fall, 
 
 And imagest the stable good 
 
 In shifting form the formless mind, 
 
 And though the substance us elude, 
 
 We in thee the shadow find. 
 395 Thou, in our astronomy 
 
 An opaker star, 
 
 Seen haply from afar, 
 
 Above the horizon's hoop, 
 
 A moment, by the railway troop, 
 400 As o'er some bolder height they speei, — 
 
 By circumspect ambition, 
 
 By errant gain, 
 
 By feasters and the frivolous, — 
 
 Recallest us, 
 405 And makest sane. 
 
 393. The mountain is but the image of the stable good : that 
 good is the invisible substance, of which the mountain is the 
 visible shadow. The good is ever shifting to us, but the type 
 u£ good is fixed. 
 
 401. Circumspect ambition, errant, i. e., travelling gain,featt- 
 •r», and frivolous, — these are all part of the railway troop. 
 
MONADNOG 449 
 
 Mute orator ! well skilled to plead, 
 And send conviction without phrase, 
 Thou dost succor and remede 
 The shortness of our days, 
 410 And promise, on thy Founder's truth, 
 Long morrow to this mortal youth. 
 29 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 [Lowell's poem on Agassiz presents many aspects 
 of that remarkable man. The stimulus which he gave 
 in this country to scientific research was followed by 
 results in other departments of human learning, for the 
 method employed in scientific study finds an applica- 
 tion in history and literature also. In the study of 
 literature the first lesson is in the power of seeing 
 what lies before the student on the printed page, and 
 the following sketch, which was published shortly after 
 Agassiz's death, is given here, both because it is so 
 entertaining an account of a student's experience, and 
 because it points so clearly to the secret of all suc- 
 cess in study, both of science and of literature.] 
 
 IN THE LABORATORY WITH AGASSIZ. 
 
 BY A FORMER PUPIL. 
 
 It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the labora- 
 tory of Professor Agassiz, and told him I had enrolled my 
 name in the scientific school as a student of natural history, 
 lie asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my 
 mtecedents generally, the mode in which I afterwards pro- 
 posed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, 
 whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I 
 replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all depart- 
 ments of zoology, I purposed to devote myself specially to in- 
 sects. 
 
APPENDIX. 451 
 
 44 When do you wish to begin ? V he asked. 
 
 44 Now," I replied. 
 
 This seemed to please him, and with an energetic "Very 
 well," he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yel- 
 low alcohol. 
 
 44 Take this Jlsh," said he, 4 ' and look at it; we call it a 
 Hsemulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen." 
 
 With that he left me, but in a moment returned with explicit 
 instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. 
 
 4 'No man is fit to be a naturalist," said he, 44 who does not 
 know how to take care of specimens." 
 
 I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally 
 moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking 
 care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days 
 of ground glass stoppers, and elegantly shaped exhibition jars ; 
 all the old students will recall the huge, neckless glass bottles 
 with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects 
 and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner 
 science than ichthyology, but the example of the professor who 
 had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce 
 the fish was infectious; and though this alcohol had 44 a very 
 ancient and fish-like smell," I really dared not show any aver- 
 sion within these sacred precincts, and treated the alcohol as 
 though it were pure water. Still I was conscious of a passing 
 feeling of disappointment, for gazing at a fish did not commend 
 itself to an ardent entomologist. My friends at home, too, were 
 annoyed, when they discovered that no amount of eau de 
 cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a 
 shadow. 
 
 In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, 
 and started in search of the professor, who had, however, left the 
 museum ; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the 
 odd animals stored in the upper apartment, my specimen was 
 dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate 
 the beast from a fainting-fit, and looked with anxiety for a 
 return of the normal, sloppy appearance. This little excitement 
 over, nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at 
 my mute companion. Half an hour passed, — an hour, — an- 
 other hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over 
 and around ; looked it in the face, — ghastly ; from behind, be- 
 neath, above, sideways, at a three quarters' view, — just as 
 
452 APPENDIX. 
 
 ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that 
 lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was care- 
 fully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free. 
 
 On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at 
 the museum, but had gone and would not return for several 
 hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by 
 continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, 
 and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might 
 not use a magnifying glass ; instruments of all kinds were in- 
 terdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish ; it seemed 
 a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel 
 how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the 
 different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. 
 At last a happy thought struck me — I would draw the fish; 
 and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the 
 creature. Just then the professor returned. 
 
 u That is right," said he; *' a pencil is one of the best of eyes. 
 I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and 
 your bottle corked." 
 
 With these encouraging words, he added, — 
 
 " Well, what is it like ? " 
 
 He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure 
 of parts whose names were still unknown to me : the fringed 
 gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, 
 fleshy lips, and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fins, 
 and forked tail ; the compressed and arched body. When I had 
 finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air 
 of disappointment, — 
 
 "You have not looked very carefully; why," he continued, 
 more earnestly, " you have n't even seen one of the most con- 
 spicuous features of the animal, which is as plainly before your 
 eyes as the fish itself; look again, look again ! " and he left me 
 to my misery. 
 
 I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched 
 fish? But now I set myself to my task with a will, and dis- 
 covered one new thing after another, until I saw how just the 
 professor's criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly, 
 and when, toward its close, the professor inquired, — 
 
 44 Do you see it yet ? " 
 
 44 No," I replied, 44 1 am certain I do not, but I see how little 
 I saw before." 
 
APPENDIX. 453 
 
 "That is next best," said he, earnestly, "but I won't hear 
 you now ; put away your fish and go home ; perhaps you will be 
 ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine 
 you before you look at the fish." 
 
 This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all 
 night, studying, without the object before me, what this un- 
 known but most visible feature might be, but also, without re- 
 viewing my new discoveries, I must give an exact account of 
 them the next day. I had a bad memory; so I walked home by 
 Charles River in a distracted state, with my two perplexities. 
 
 The cordial greeting from the professor the next morning 
 was reassuring; here was a man who seemed to be quite as 
 anxious as I, that I should see for myself what he saw. 
 
 "Do you perhaps mean," I asked, "that the fish has sym- 
 metrical sides with paired organs ? n 
 
 His thoroughly pleased, " Of course, of course ! " repaid the 
 wakeful hours of the previous night. After he had discoursed 
 most happily and enthusiastically — as he always did — upon 
 the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I should do 
 next. 
 
 " Oh, look at your fish ! M he said, and left me again to my 
 own devices. In a little more than an hour he returned and 
 heard my new catalogue. 
 
 "That is good, that is good! " he repeated; but that is not 
 all; go on; M and so for three long days he placed that fish be- 
 fore my eyes, forbidding me to look at anything else, or to use 
 any artificial aid. "Look, look, look," was his repeated in- 
 junction. 
 
 This was the best entomological lesson I ever had, — a lesson 
 whose influence has extended to the details of every subsequent 
 study ; a legacy the professor has left to me, as he left it to 
 many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, 
 with which we cannot part. 
 
 A year afterwards, some of us were amusing ourselves with 
 chalking outlandish beasts upon the museum blackboard. We 
 drew prancing star-fishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra* 
 headed worms; stately crawfishes, standing on their tails, bear- 
 ing aloft umbrellas; and grotesque fishes with gaping mouths 
 and staring eyes. The professor came in shortly after, and 
 was as amused as any at our experiments. He looked at the 
 ttshes. 
 
4o4 APPENDIX. 
 
 "Haemulons, every one of them,'* he said; " Mr. 
 
 drew them.*' 
 
 True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing 
 but Haemulons. 
 
 The fourth day, a second fish of the same group was placed 
 beside the first, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances 
 and differences between the two ; another and another followed, 
 until the entire family lay before me, and a whole legion of jars 
 covered the table and surrounding shelves; the odor had be- 
 come a pleasant perfume : and even now, the sight of an old, 
 six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant memories ! 
 
 The whole group of Haemulons was thus brought in review: 
 and, whether engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, 
 the preparation and examination of the bony frame-work, or 
 the description of the various parts, Agassiz's training in the 
 method of observing facts and their orderly arrangement was 
 ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not to be content 
 with them. 
 
 M Facts are stupid things," he would say, M until brought 
 into connection with some general law." 
 
 At the end of eight months, it was almost with reluctance 
 that I left these friends and turned to inlets : but what I had 
 gained by this outside experience has been of greater value than 
 years of later investigation in my favorite groups. 
 
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