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 RALPH H. SHAV/ 
 
THE 
 
 First Plymouth Marriage 
 
 and 
 
 By 
 
 RALPH H. SHAW 
 
 Author of "In Many Moods," "Legend of the 
 
 Trailing Arbutus and Other 
 
 Poems," etc. 
 
 Lowell, Mass 
 1907. 
 

 LibttnciV Ot CONw :£aS 
 i wo ooi)ie$ necuif jt 
 
 iviAh U 1908 
 
 Copyright, 1908, 
 By Ralph H. Shaw 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Inscription 5 
 
 The First Plymouth Marriage 7 
 
 The Balladist at the Lake 11 
 
 The Ideal 12 
 
 The Flight 13 
 
 At Gretna Green 14 
 
 Spring 15 
 
 A Lilt 15 
 
 A Spring Invitation 16 
 
 Idlesse 17 
 
 My Balladist 18 
 
 To the Witch of Wenham 18 
 
 Invitation to the Old Homestead 19 
 
 My Wish of Today 20 
 
 In October 20 
 
 A Little Lad and 1 21 
 
 A Pastoral Sight 22 
 
 "Old Man of the Mountain" 22 
 
 "A Pastoral" 23 
 
 Robin's Hill 23 
 
 About the Sea 24 
 
 Columbus 24 
 
 Elder Faunce 25 
 
 Birthday Greeting 25 
 
CONTENTS— Continued 
 
 To O. W. R 26 
 
 The Wooded Way 27 
 
 The Early Rain 28 
 
 My Friend and 1 28 
 
 Pan 29 
 
 In Whittier Land 30 
 
 Robert Dinsmore's Grave 30 
 
 Robert Dinsmore 31 
 
 At Millvale Falls 32 
 
 The Maples and the Pines 33 
 
 A Story of the Wind 33 
 
 The Burial of Bradford 34 
 
 Plymouth Rock 34 
 
 Plymouth Rock and Mary Chilton 35 
 
 The Mayflower on Bradford's Grave 36 
 
 Paul Revere's Horse 36 
 
 The Old Belfry at Lexington 37 
 
 Stanzas 38 
 
 Stanzas, Cottager's Letter 38 
 
 The House of Tipsy Tim 40 
 
 Fifty-Eight 41 
 
 The Monster 41 
 
 Joseph Putnam 42 
 
 Seekers of Glooskap 43 
 
 The Storm Ledge 45 
 
 Why the Partridge Lives in the Bush 46 
 
 The Rattlers 47 
 
TO MY FRIEND AND PASTOR 
 REV. DR. R. A. GREENE 
 
 This little volume is affectionately inscribed. 
 
 Friend beloved, in whom I find 
 
 Attributes of heart and mind 
 
 Making Christian manhood real, 
 
 Something more than an ideal, — 
 
 I rejoice that I may be 
 
 Often in thy walks with thee, 
 
 When thou turn'st from book and pen 
 
 In thy prayerful work for men. 
 
 Unto Nature, for the good 
 
 Found in some cathedral wood; 
 
 By some fountain, pure and free, 
 
 In its leafy baptistry; 
 
 Or upon some hilltop high 
 
 In the blue dome of the sky. 
 
 I am grateful evermore 
 
 For thy words of love and lore; 
 
 For thy blessed influence 
 
 On my life of soul and sense; 
 
 For the measure that thou giv'st 
 
 Of the light wherein thou liv'st. 
 
 Thou who seest the love divine 
 
 Making everywhere its sign. 
 
 Reassured that God is even 
 
 Here on earth as there in heaven. 
 
 (5) 
 
THE FIRST PLYMOUTH MARRIAGE. 
 
 Methlnks the first of Plymouth marriages 
 Was an event whereof the Muse may sing; 
 There was no pomp — no bells, no carriages — 
 But oh! there was the songful sky of spring 
 With all the charms that Flora's footsteps bring. 
 And hearts rejoiced — so great was their delight 
 To see so much of sadness vanishing — 
 When Edward Winslow, he thrice governor hight, 
 Took to his heart and hearth the much-loved 
 Susan White. 
 
 Widowed their first New England winter in. 
 Alike bereft, they had by sympathy 
 Been drawn together; both alike had been 
 Oft seen by all in Plymouth Colony 
 To look thro' tears about them, — at the sea 
 That dashed its foam against the wintry shore. 
 The forest dark with deepening mystery, 
 And the wild sky that desolated more 
 The spot where their farewells had mixed with 
 ocean's roar. 
 
 "It was not long, not long ago," said he 
 To Susan in their courtship, 'that my wife, 
 Elizabeth, — of blessed memory, — 
 Departed in the peace of God this life: 
 And on Cole's Hill, that now with flowers rife 
 Looks with a different aspect o'er the bay 
 That has forgotten now its stormy strife 
 With wind and rock, I did her body lay. 
 Sincerely mourning her, which no one can gainsay. 
 
 (7) 
 
"If little Plymouth," said he, looking down 
 Its hut-built street that tumbled to the sea, 
 "Had leisure for mere gossip, like a town 
 With little to accomplish, not in me 
 Resolve to wed so soon again would be. 
 For prudence then would not the step permit. 
 Here I o'erlook what the society 
 Of Leyden or our London would deem fit, 
 And offer you my hand with all my heart in it." 
 
 "Edward — for there exists what gives me right 
 To call you Edward — you are good and wise 
 And much consulted," answered Susan White. 
 "I know that Plymouth, looking thro' your eyes 
 At many things, will see what wisdom lies 
 In what to you as the best course appears 
 For your content beneath these alien skies; 
 It will not hold small grief is in your tears, 
 But your resolve commend and wish you happy 
 years. 
 
 "Are we not young? Have I not children — one 
 The first-born of our little colony — 
 That should have greater strength to lean upon 
 For many years than mine, dear friend, can be? 
 My husband's and their father's memory 
 I cherish; but is not my widowhood 
 O'er-burdened with a strange anxiety 
 Here where is need of constant fortitude 
 And few of us may keep our first heroic mood? 
 
 "But it is love far more than selfishness 
 That leads me, Edward Winslow, to accept 
 Your hand with your heart in it; for not less 
 I love you than you love me who have kept 
 A tender thought of you since first we wept 
 In like bereavement, by this hearth of mine, 
 Who saw not in the shadow that had crept 
 Across our lives, more of the will divine 
 Than now we see in what make.s MY heart yours, 
 yours mine." 
 
 (8) 
 
Then leading in procession the whole town, 
 They went before the magistrate, and he 
 Without prayer book or ring, in wig and gown, 
 United them with such formality 
 As satisfied all those who came to see 
 Their wedding, first of Plymouth marriages, 
 Much talked of later by the colony, 
 As an event of pleasant memories. 
 So simple and so plain, graced with love's sanctities. 
 
 The day was fair, and In the Plymouth woods 
 The robin and the bluebird sang of Spring 
 Those lilted lays that charm the solitudes, 
 And hope and courage to the saddest bring 
 And rapture to the happiest, — such as sing 
 In their sunshiny hearts, as on this day 
 Sang Edward and his sweet bride, wondering 
 If Spring or love had made the earth so gay, 
 If Spring or love had graced the shores of Plym- 
 outh Bay. 
 
 We follow them adown their many years; 
 We see them honored and beloved by all; 
 We see them blest, albeit oft their tears 
 For their loved dead on lonely Cole's Hill fall; 
 And we rejoice, who now that day recall 
 When they were wedded and the sun burst thro' 
 Clouds that had troubled many, saddened all, 
 That the first wedding little Plymouth knew 
 United hearts that were so noble and so true. 
 
 Note. — "The first marriage in the Colony occur- 
 red May 22, 1621. Edward Winslow had been a 
 widower only seven weeks, and Susanna White a 
 widow not twelve weeks; but the case was excep- 
 tional. What would be indecorous in an older 
 community was here proper and desirable. Wins- 
 low should be at the head of a household, and the 
 White children needed a paternal guardian, espe- 
 cially as their mother was occupied with the care 
 of an infant. The marriage proved fortunate for 
 
 (9) 
 
all concerned. Among Mrs. Winslow's subsequent 
 children was Josiah, whom fifty-two years later 
 she saw the first native governor of an American 
 colony; thus she was the mother of the first white 
 child in New England, the wife of one governor 
 and the mother of another." — Goodwin, The Pil- 
 grim Republic. 
 
 (10) 
 
THE BALLADIST AT THE LAKE. 
 
 •Ti3 moonrise, — and the highlands, 
 The lake and all its islands. 
 
 Look wilder for the singing: 
 
 Of the lady at my side. 
 She sings of lofty towers, 
 She sings of lattice bowers. 
 
 Of knights that won fair ladies 
 
 Or in combat for them died. 
 
 She sings of barons arming: 
 To save their daughters charming. 
 Of pages bringing tidings 
 That are full of weal or woe. 
 She sings of love and rapture. 
 She sings of flight and capture. 
 Of duels fought by rivals 
 As they fought them long ago. 
 
 And lo! a darkly frowning 
 
 Old tower now is crowning 
 The highest hill that rises 
 From the border of the lake; 
 
 And now there is a flashing 
 
 Of swords together clashing 
 Where moonbeams pierce the shadows. 
 Which is all for love's dear sake. 
 
 And now a white-robed rider, 
 
 With him she loves beside her. 
 Is pausing where the mist-wralth 
 Lingers long beneath the moon. 
 
 What Is It they are fearing? 
 
 What is it they are hearing? 
 Is It a far-ofC bugle 
 Or the trumpet of the loon? 
 
 Oh, what a wild confusion 
 Of thoughts born of illusion 
 
 And the romantic singing 
 
 Of the lady at my side! 
 
 (11) 
 
And oh, what blissful dreaming 
 Wherein I have been seeming 
 A happy knight of old time 
 In the presence of his bride! 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 The far-off hills are flushed with morn 
 
 While once again we list 
 To her who was a singer born, — 
 
 Our sweet-lipped balladist. 
 
 She brings the feudal cycle back. 
 
 She builds the castle here. 
 And these wild scenes no longer lack 
 
 Romance's atmosphere. 
 
 She sees above the lonely lake 
 
 The eagle dip his wings. 
 And tenderer her accents make 
 
 The ballad that she sings. 
 
 My father is a baron bold, 
 
 And stony is his eye; 
 He keeps me in his castle old, 
 
 With maids that hover nigh; 
 And tells me oft of carlish men, 
 
 Of gallants full of guile, 
 Of ladies led to moor and fen 
 
 By some unearthly wile. 
 
 Arise, fair day, arise, and make 
 
 A happy maid of me! 
 Bring o'er the hills, bring o'er the lake, 
 
 The lad I long to see! 
 Who comes with such a gentle mien 
 
 In dreams by night and day. 
 Where oft upon his arm I lean 
 
 And wend with him away. 
 
 O, let him shame the armored knights 
 That darker make these halls! 
 
 Upon his face, which manhood lights, 
 No visor's shadow falls; 
 
 (12) 
 
No gauntlet hides his guiltless hand, 
 
 No sword is at his side; — 
 Oh, what a stain is on the land 
 
 Where none like him abide! 
 
 Arise, fair day, arise, and make 
 
 A happy maid of me! 
 Bring o'er the hills, bring o'er the lake, 
 
 The lad I long to see! 
 And let me at his side forsake 
 
 These shadows damp and dim! 
 And let him from these pale lips take 
 
 The kiss I offer him! 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 Sir John has haunted, haunted long. 
 
 The woods of Haddon Hall; 
 Alone has seen the mornings rise, 
 
 Alone the evenings fall. 
 Sir John has waited, waited long. 
 
 Still patient of delay, 
 To press the hand of Dorothy 
 
 And ride with her away. 
 
 O, shall he wait in vain tonight, 
 
 When Haddon Hall is gay. 
 Enlivened by a merrymake 
 
 That will not cease till day; 
 When boards are spread, when cups are filled. 
 
 When light the dance goes round, 
 And ever and anon to him 
 
 Comes laughter's echoed sound? 
 
 He looks, he listens. Mirth has made 
 
 Her watchers careless all. 
 And lo! he sees his love at last 
 
 Escape from Haddon Hall, — 
 Steal lightly from the ivied door 
 
 Across the terrace old, 
 And glimmer down the glimmering steps 
 
 With feet that grow more bold. 
 
 (13) 
 
She falls Into his outstretched arms, 
 
 She mounts his horse with him, 
 And rides away with smiles whose ray 
 
 Makes e'en the moonlight dim; 
 And gaining breath, to him she saith, — 
 
 A saying she has heard, — 
 "Too closely none can watch the cage 
 
 When love's the captive bird." 
 
 AT GRETNA GREEN. 
 Arise, honest blacksmith! 
 
 We stop not for you 
 Thus early to fit 
 
 Or to fasten a shoe; 
 Your bellows to blow 
 
 Or your hammer to swing; 
 But straightway to wed us — 
 
 And here is the ring. 
 
 Make haste, honest blacksmith! 
 
 The morning Is here; 
 The east is a-blush 
 
 Like a blossoming brere; 
 And we would be riding 
 
 The same happy pace 
 That brought us both here 
 
 With the dew on our face. 
 * « * * * 
 
 Now take of our gold 
 
 For your service well done, 
 And take what you will, 
 
 For our thanks you have won. 
 How needless the strength 
 
 That we see in your hands, 
 To forge, honest blacksmith, 
 
 The strongest of bands! 
 
 A baron will mutter. 
 
 And gather his brow; 
 What more can that baron. 
 
 Pray tell us, do now? 
 Erelong he'll forgive all 
 
 For his and our sake. 
 And shared be his castle 
 
 That looks o'er the lake. 
 
 (14) 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Who does not love 
 
 The nyniph called Spring, 
 So sweet the kiss 
 
 Her pure lips bring, 
 So delicate 
 
 She is, and fair, 
 With azure eyes 
 
 And sunny hair? 
 
 Behold her, light 
 
 As Ariel, 
 In veils as fine 
 
 As ever fell 
 O'er beauty in 
 
 The artist's dream. 
 By misty wood 
 
 Or willowy stream! 
 
 Anemones 
 
 And violets — 
 Which not a heart 
 
 That loves forgets — 
 Arise where'er 
 
 Her footsteps fall, 
 And tender skies 
 
 Bend over all. 
 
 A LILT. 
 
 I heard a bird. 
 At break of day. 
 
 Repeat its sweet. 
 Sweet roundelay. 
 
 Methought I ought 
 To know its art. 
 
 Because I was 
 
 As blithe at heart. 
 
 "O, now learn how," 
 I heard it say, 
 
 "As well to tell 
 Your heart today; 
 
 (15) 
 
"That one by none 
 In grace surpast, 
 
 The weal you feel 
 May know at last!' 
 
 Then o'er once more, 
 To teach its way, 
 
 It sung or rung 
 Its roundelay; 
 
 But, oh! to know 
 How I would sing, 
 
 My dear must hear 
 Its carolling. 
 
 A SPRING INVITATION. 
 
 Come, my dear friend, and let us go 
 
 Across the fields together! 
 The air is chilly yet, I know; 
 
 But this is real spring weather. 
 The sky is blue, the grass is green. 
 
 The runnels all are flowing, 
 And here and there, by few eyes seen. 
 
 The shy spring flowers are blowing. 
 
 Come, my dear friend, and let us go 
 
 Across the fields, renewing 
 The pleasures that we used to know 
 
 Their winding paths pursuing, 
 When each and every green expanse 
 
 That we could rest our eyes on, 
 Was ours, as by inheritance 
 
 As broad as our horizon! 
 
 Come, my dear friend, and let us go 
 
 Across the fields as gaily 
 As when we were too young to know 
 
 That time would rob us daily! 
 The sky is blue, the grass is green. 
 
 The runnels all are flowing. 
 And here and there, by few eyes seen. 
 
 The shy spring flowers are blowing. 
 
 (16) 
 
IDLESSE. 
 
 Here at the lake 
 
 My ease I take 
 When all the hills are hazy; 
 
 I like to be 
 
 Where I can see 
 So much that looks so lazy. 
 
 Beneath this pine 
 
 Few thoughts are mine 
 Of life — its gains or losses; 
 
 No more to me 
 
 Is destiny 
 Than to these ferns and mosses. 
 
 I ask no why 
 
 Or wherefore; I 
 Am full of calm reliance; 
 
 I would not look 
 
 Through any book 
 For any bit of science. 
 
 Nor do I care 
 
 How doctrines fare, 
 Religious or politic; 
 
 What questions great 
 
 Vex church or state 
 And make the world a critic. 
 
 Out on the cause 
 
 That wants new laws, 
 New creeds and such inventions!- 
 
 I would not hear 
 
 What fills the ear 
 In senates or conventions. 
 
 And so I take 
 
 Here at the lake, 
 When all the hills are hazy, 
 
 My fill of ease 
 
 And, as I please, 
 My share of being lazy. 
 
 (17) 
 
MY BALLADIST. 
 
 How sweet in all her ways is she 
 Who sings me songs of chivalry — 
 Of love, romance and courtesy — 
 As, pausing oft, we wander by 
 Her lake where birchen shadows lie 
 In marges that repeat the sky! 
 
 She sings them all so well, I see 
 Their wildly castled scenery, 
 Their towers looking down on me; 
 And I become her knight and bear 
 Within niy heart her image fair, 
 All deeds for her to do and dare. 
 
 She knows they have a charm for me, 
 
 Assured that I was born to be 
 
 Alive to olden balladry; 
 
 But deeply would she blush to know 
 
 How much to her pure lips they owe, — 
 
 Her eyes that glance and cheeks that glow. 
 
 TO THE WITCH OF WENHAM. 
 
 Quos poetae celebraverunt vivunt semper. 
 
 O Witch of Wenham! a witch are you 
 
 As much today as in days of old; 
 Still in your eyes is the heaven's blue. 
 
 Still in your hair is the sunset's gold. 
 
 Unchanged is the charm that youth was taught 
 To beware in you, by Wenham side. 
 
 When beauty so fair as yours was thought 
 To be with an evil soul allied. 
 
 Draw near to me in this dreamy hour, 
 With all your beauty, and let me be 
 
 Under the spell of its radiant power. 
 Which is alone all your witchery! 
 
 Bend over me with your melting eyes! 
 
 Bend over me with your flowing hair! 
 For something there is that testifies 
 
 That only the good can be so fair. 
 
 (18) 
 
INVITATION TO THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 The invitation comes again 
 
 To lay aside my busy pen; 
 
 To close my desk; to leave the town, 
 
 And seek the homestead, old and brown, 
 
 Where I outlived my childhood. 
 It comes with subtile charm to me — 
 With something like wild fragrancy, 
 With something like the sound of lays 
 Heard long ago, through careless days, 
 
 In meadow, field and wildwood. 
 
 It comes in homely words and few. 
 Describing nothing; yet anew 
 Presents to me the winding lane. 
 The long barn with its worn-out vane. 
 
 The house with its huge chimney; 
 And far from these, the covered bridge, 
 And farther still, the piney ridge 
 Beyond which, in my early days, 
 I thought the world had other ways 
 
 I could but fancy dimly. 
 
 Sweet invitation to return 
 
 To the old homestead and sojourn! 
 
 It does not need, thank Heaven! to be 
 
 In graphic words or flowery 
 
 To be above declining. 
 No other that is ever sent, 
 However fine or eloquent, 
 So much in sweet suggestion bears 
 To men in noisy thoroughfares, 
 
 Of days of peace and shining. 
 
 So — thanks to the old folks again! — 
 I'll lay aside my busy pen, 
 I'll close my desk, I'll leave the town. 
 And seek the homestead, old and brown. 
 
 Where I outlived my childhood; 
 Forget the long year's dull routine, 
 Each old and uninspiring scene. 
 And, far from clamor and ado. 
 Will once again my life renew 
 
 In meadow, field and wildwood. 
 
 (19) 
 
MY WISH OF TODAY. 
 
 Come, my lads, and let us hie 
 To that deep, Inverted sky, — 
 Wood-rimmed pond o'er which alone 
 You have skipped the skimming stone! 
 
 Up and down the ferny hill; 
 O'er the meadow; by the rill. 
 Let us go with equal feet, 
 Hearts that in full concord beat! 
 
 Let us whistle as we go; 
 
 Wake the mimics that you know, 
 
 Who have learned what rocks and woods 
 
 Echo in wild neighborhoods! 
 
 Let me find I have the key. 
 Nay, the Open Sesame, 
 To your world with sunshine lit. 
 In my wish to enter it! 
 
 IN OCTOBER. 
 
 I walk again with Autumn, 
 Walk once again with Autumn, 
 
 Along this wooded way, 
 Where slantwise falls the sunshine, 
 The softly golden sunshine. 
 
 Upon her garments gay. 
 
 Not hers the signs of mourning, 
 The sombre signs of mourning; 
 
 But hers the mourning heart: 
 There is a subtile something, 
 A vague, pathetic something, 
 
 That does this truth impart. 
 
 I look on her in sorrow. 
 In mute, responsive sorrow. 
 
 Which I more deeply feel 
 Because she is not seeking. 
 By any token seeking, 
 
 Her sorrow to reveal. 
 
 (20) 
 
And as I walk in musing, 
 Walk here with her in musing, 
 
 This truth returns to me: 
 Do not parade your sorrow, 
 If you would gain in sorrow 
 
 Sincerest sympathy. 
 
 A LITTLE LAD AND I. 
 
 A little lad and I 
 
 Together walked one day. 
 Where we could look over dull brown vales 
 
 To blue hills far away. 
 
 *Twas autumn, and the leaves 
 
 Had fallen all around, 
 And with the wind from the tree-tops bare 
 
 There came a wintry sound. 
 
 We paused where birds had been — 
 
 The songful summer birds: 
 My thoughts were sad; but the little lad 
 
 Spake only happy words. 
 
 We paused where flowers had been — 
 
 The light of woodland nooks: 
 My thoughts were sad; but the little lad 
 
 Wore only happy looks. 
 
 I blest him from my heart, 
 
 And wished that I could be 
 As much to self that is summer-like 
 
 As all that day was he. 
 
 And now, whenever I 
 
 That autumn walk recall. 
 It is his words and his looks that I 
 
 Remember best of all. 
 
 (21) 
 
A PASTORAL SIGHT. 
 
 O that I well could tell you — you who see 
 A beauty in the simple pastoral mode 
 Of living, and would take up your abode 
 
 Where there is yet a quiet Arcady — 
 
 What saw I in our city, that to me 
 A city seemed no longer, when last glowed 
 Our steepled sky with sunset! By that road 
 
 That here and there recalls a century, 
 
 A little girl sat on an old stone wall. 
 In pensive quiet, watching a few sheep 
 That slowly drifted in the slantwise light 
 
 And cast long shadows, tranquilizing all. 
 She watched them with affection that was deep, 
 And ne'er saw I a sweeter pastoral sight. 
 
 "OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN." 
 (An Impression.) 
 
 Till God shall change, in His good time, thy fate. 
 Thou must resist a mighty force, or be 
 Forever fallen. Uncomplainingly 
 
 Thou dost thy task perform, and so await 
 
 Divine deliverance. Thy faith is great, 
 Thy patience without limit. O that we 
 Had faith, had patience, no necessity 
 
 Of these our lives could find inadequate! 
 
 Who shall behold thee, calm as the still heaven, 
 Though suffering like the Titan of old time, 
 Resist that force that, from thy mountain wall. 
 
 To hurl thee headlong hath for ages striven, 
 And yet not feel how grand, ay, how sublime 
 Is faith, is patience, that endureth all? 
 
 (22) 
 
"A PASTORAL." 
 
 How pleasant in this noisy town to see, 
 Beside the dusty highway and where fall 
 The shadows cast by towers and steeples tall, 
 
 This old farm lingering like a memory! 
 
 A pastoral I call it; may it be 
 
 So called by others till its old stone wall, 
 Its orchard and its garden croft, with all 
 
 Its sounds and sights of happy husbandry, 
 
 Have passed away, or Time's tooth, never dull, 
 With indiscriminate activity 
 Has gnawed its ancient buildings to the ground! 
 
 I turn to it because 'tis beautiful — 
 This poem of a saner century, 
 That in the midst of so much prose is found. 
 
 ROBIN'S HILL. 
 
 How often in the early morningtide — 
 
 When, half awake but with accustomed ear, 
 We, in our streets, the first milk wagons hear 
 
 Arriving from the grassy countryside — 
 
 A vision comes to me of pastures wide 
 
 On airy hillsides, scattered farmsteads near, 
 Bathed in a fresh and dewy atmosphere 
 
 And by the touch of morning beautified! 
 
 And Oh, how often ere it fades away, 
 I seem to be where Pan invites me oft 
 From his pure springs to drink again my fill, 
 
 Beholding with what beauty breaks the day 
 Where mellow lowings rise, and sweet and soft 
 The redbreast carols over Robin's Hill! 
 
 (23) 
 
ABOUT THE SEA. 
 
 O, let me read a book about the sea. 
 
 This summer day, among these inland hills, 
 Forgetful of the visible heat that fills 
 
 This windless air so unremittingly! 
 
 A book that shall be as a beach to me, 
 
 Where break the billows rolling far and wide, 
 A salted wind, a rising, joyous tide, 
 
 O'ercoming all my languid lethargy; 
 
 Or even as a handful of the flowers, 
 
 The moss and fern, whose garden is the deep, 
 From dripping rocks and caverns freshly 
 brought; 
 
 For, look about you! drouth's gray dust is ours 
 And all our hills a hazy dulness keep. 
 While nothing here refreshes life or thought. 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 Columbus hath been walking by the sea. 
 And making lonely footprints on its sand. 
 Imagining a western way to land 
 
 That lieth eastward; and now fervently, 
 
 By his great thought uplifted, prayeth he 
 For ships to sail the waters that expand 
 Below the verge whence setting suns command 
 
 Their solemn and far-reaching mystery. 
 
 God hath been with him when he seemed alone, 
 And spoken to him somewhat till, today, 
 He turns his whole soul toward the Occident, 
 
 He is inspired for work to him unknown: 
 Not his to find a western ocean way 
 To Asia, but another continent! 
 
 (24) 
 
ELDER FAUNCE. 
 
 1646-1745. 
 We, who of Pilgrim relics treasures make, 
 
 Too little honor Faunce's memory. 
 
 But for his act, unknown to us would be 
 Forefathers' Rock. He on himself did take 
 When it was much imperiled, for the sake 
 
 Of saving it to all posterity. 
 
 The making of it known. Remembered he 
 What unto him the Pilgrim Fathers spake 
 Concerning it so oft before they died. 
 
 When early in his life with them he stood 
 
 Beside it, on the bleak and barren shore; 
 And, bowed with age, came and identified 
 
 This sacred relic, midst a multitude 
 
 That praised his act and heard his voice no more. 
 
 BIRTHDAY GREETING. 
 
 April 29, 1887. 
 
 Dear sister, I am mindful of the day. 
 And many are my wishes that it be 
 As fair and gentle as thou art to me: 
 
 Nor mist, nor shadow, but the mildest ray 
 
 Of April, I would have upon thy way. 
 With airs that breathe of blossoms. I would see 
 As much of grace in Nature as in thee. 
 
 To whose young heart my own I closely lay. 
 
 I watch the eastern sky; I question all 
 
 The winds that come thus early in the morn 
 If they precede what are oppressed with rain; 
 
 I hear the birds among the treetops call, 
 And wonder if they know the day is born 
 As it will pass, and full of hope remain. 
 
 (25) 
 
TO O. W. R. 
 
 (Formerly of Billerica, now of Taunton, Mass.) 
 
 Well pleased am I that by the old mossed road 
 My fancy seeks thee, — through the woods and 
 
 leas 
 Where sings the shy thrush in full-throated ease 
 
 And wings the wild bee with its thigh-borne load; 
 
 The old mossed road that led to thine abode 
 In early years, when first thy melodies 
 Delighted me with their simplicities, 
 
 And made me "w^ish that I might learn thy mode; — 
 
 And not, O poet! by that iron way 
 
 That draws its monstrous length through wan- 
 ing woods 
 And glistens on from busy town to town, 
 
 I must pursue to reach thy hearth today. 
 
 My fancy finds thee in old haunts and moods, 
 And will not let thee lay thy sweet reed down. 
 
 (26) 
 
THE WOODED WAY. 
 
 Now let us seek that wooded way again, 
 Where we so oft have left the world behind 
 And all the common cares that weary men, 
 Or wear away their spirit or their mind, 
 If they to them are overmuch confined; 
 And let us make a summer of a day, 
 Delig-hting- to be careless as the wind 
 That now, the lightest vagrant of that way, 
 Is whispering to the leaves or with the flowers 
 at play. 
 
 That wooded way abandoned long ago 
 
 By eager Haste, and now well-nigh forgot. 
 
 Is beautiful as any that we know 
 
 In song or story; and its charm is not 
 
 Less deeply felt that Genius has not taught 
 
 Minds to expect it. Birch and pine and fir, 
 
 » And glimpses of idyllic landscapes caught 
 Through leafy vistas, with its peace concur 
 
 To make it worthy of the gifted wanderer. 
 
 We have pursued it far, by dale and down, 
 Nor met a single wayfarer, nor seen, 
 In all its mossy miles from town to town. 
 What would betoken any; and we ween 
 That it unsought from sun to sun has been, 
 And even when the summer's tinkling showers 
 Have made its leafy twilight still more green, 
 Or given a sweeter freshness to its bowers, 
 Or made more lovely still its groups of gypsy 
 fiowers. 
 
 There sings the thrush in some secluded tree. 
 Where he is careless, full of rapturous ease; 
 There drums the unscared partridge; and if we 
 But listen, we may hear the hum of bees 
 About some hollow bole, or from the leas 
 Conveying their sweet harvest; and full oft 
 Expands o'er us a murmur like the sea's, 
 
 (27) 
 
When on the pines that rear themselves aloft 
 Against the azure sky, the wind blows light and 
 soft. 
 
 Come, let's be off, while yet the winged day 
 Is rising o'er the city's eastern wall; 
 Come, let us seek again that wooded way 
 And loiter where now Time's footsteps fall 
 On dewy ferns and mosses, whither call 
 The spirits that are in our memories 
 Back to us from the wild, the pastoral, 
 The quiet and, more deeply felt than these. 
 Seclusion that is peace and freedom that is ease. 
 
 THE EARLY RAIN. 
 
 I love to hear the rain encouraging 
 
 With its soft words the tender grass in spring; 
 
 It is so full of pretty promises, 
 
 So like a mother that encourages 
 
 Her little one to walk. 
 
 "O, do not fear! 
 Strike deep thy roots, best done when I am here; 
 Strike deep thy roots," it saith, "though earth be 
 
 cold, 
 And thou shalt live, the violet soon behold, 
 The daisy and the buttercup erelong, 
 Under blue skies and breadths of lilted song." 
 
 MY FRIEND AND I. 
 
 My friend and I are going out 
 To wander in the fields about; 
 But not as peeping botanists. 
 Nor hammering geologists, 
 Nor ornithologists; but just 
 As men who like to brush the dust 
 Of beaten ways from off their feet 
 And tread among the grasses sweet, 
 
 (28) 
 
Where beauty has its only bound 
 
 In the horizon circling round. 
 
 So, when we have come back again, 
 
 We shall not talk, like learned men, 
 
 Like scientists with curious minds. 
 
 Of species, specimens or kinds; 
 
 But tell you how, with sweet surprise. 
 
 Some floral beauty filled our eyes; 
 
 Or how some bird, with lilted song. 
 
 Delighted us and held us long; 
 
 Or how some rock's cool shadow lay 
 
 On mosses, dialing the day; 
 
 Or of some far, idyllic bit 
 
 Of landscape for a canvas fit. 
 
 Some tufted wood, some purpled hill. 
 
 Some natural picture, charming still. 
 
 PAN. 
 
 Beyond the city's noisy way. 
 
 The whirl of life, I walk today. 
 
 And in this wood-rimmed sward land hear 
 
 A music that delights my ear, — 
 
 A fluting that is full of glee 
 
 And ripples like the melody 
 
 Of light winds in the beechen tree. 
 
 It is the pastoral of Pan, 
 Who unto me, as boy and man, 
 Has given that contented mood 
 Wherein suffices primal good 
 (The filling of my actual need) 
 To make me happy, blest indeed, 
 Beyond the breathing of my reed. 
 
 The wisest of the wise to me, 
 
 The best of all the gods, is he, 
 
 Who calls me from the throng and press 
 
 Of lives in needless strain and stress, 
 
 Distraught with false necessities, 
 
 To tarry in his pleasant leas 
 
 And taste with him the sweets of ease. 
 
 (29) 
 
IN WHITTIER LAND. 
 
 A sunny hill with smoothly curved sky-line; 
 A silent herd of upward-grazing kine; 
 A lonely steeple rising far away, — 
 These have I seen where I have been today, 
 In quiet Whittier Land. 
 
 A sunny vale with meadow, field and wood; 
 Still waters in a leafy solitude, 
 And such as lapse with lightest tones away, — 
 These have I seen where I have been today, 
 In quiet Whittier Land. 
 
 Gray, lichened rocks and pastoral junipers; 
 Cool, shadowed mosses, sombering pines and firs, 
 And reddening cones of sumach by the way, — 
 These have I seen where I have been today. 
 In quiet Whittier Land. 
 
 A quaint old house with softly opened door; 
 A threshold passed by thoughtful pilgrims o'er. 
 By hearts that love the shy bard's thrush-like lay, 
 These have I seen where I have been today, 
 In quiet Whittier Land. 
 
 ROBERT DINSMORE'S GRAVE. 
 
 There is a grave not far away 
 
 That we must visit, friend, some day. 
 
 We have neglected it too long, 
 
 As lovers of the Scottish lay. 
 
 The simple and sincere in song. 
 
 Within it sleeps that rustic bard. 
 
 Large-hearted and of Scotch descent, 
 
 Who, while above his plow he bent 
 
 Or rested from his labors hard, 
 
 Sang Burns-like in this land of ours, 
 
 In this New England atmosphere, 
 
 As if he saw the azure flowers 
 
 And purple hills of Scotland here, 
 
 Or that wild brook that wandered near 
 
 (30) 
 
"Were bonny Doon or gurgling Ayr, 
 Romantic as its vales were fair. 
 
 'Tis Dinsmore's grave, upon whose mound 
 Our Whittier a wreath has laid 
 That can not wither, no, nor fade. 
 'Tis in the ancient burial-ground 
 Of pastoral Windham, where today 
 The green grass trembles in the wind 
 As gentle as 'tis unconfined, 
 And the blue sky with genial ray 
 Calls forth the early flowers — a spot 
 Where Nature's hand, not Art's, has wrought 
 A simple beauty fit to be 
 About the grave of such as he, 
 Who sang, without a thought of art, 
 To nature in the human heart. 
 
 ROBERT DINSMORE. 
 
 Windham, N. H., 1758-1836. 
 
 Robert Dinsmore, rustic bard, 
 At his labor long and hard 
 Found his inspiration here, 
 On this hillside, by this mere, 
 And, a plowman all his days, 
 Sang in plowmen's ears his lays. 
 
 Lays of love, its smiles and tears, 
 Lays of home, its hopes and fears. 
 Plain expressions of a heart 
 Troubled by no thought of art. 
 Feeling deeply what it felt. 
 Melting as a heart should melt. 
 
 Pathless lies his grassy mound 
 In yon ancient burial-ground, 
 Where the cowbell tinkles low, 
 Piney odors come and go, 
 And a few wild flowers rise 
 Seldom seen by human eyes; 
 
 (31) 
 
Scarcely now the lips of Fame 
 Here or there repeat his name, — 
 But the merit that was his 
 Hearts commend with emphasis: 
 Honest thought and honest phrase 
 Charm full many nowadays. 
 
 Let about his place of rest 
 
 By our feet the grass be prest! 
 
 Let our grateful tribute be 
 
 Simple as his memory — 
 
 This unribboned bunch of flowers 
 
 Common in his day as ours! 
 
 AT MILLVALE FALLS. 
 
 What an organist we find 
 Plays in summer's gentle wind 
 
 On the Falls of Millvale! 
 With what grace, what perfect ease, 
 Wakes he here and there the keys 
 
 In the Falls of Millvale! 
 
 What allegros, sweet and bright, 
 Plays he o'er, with rapt delight. 
 
 On the Falls of Millvale! 
 What adagios, soft and low. 
 While his touches pensive grow, 
 
 On the Falls of Millvale! 
 
 How he bends above the keys, 
 Charmed with all the harmonies 
 
 Of the Falls of Millvale! 
 Ah! that organist divine 
 Knows no instrument more fine 
 
 Than the Falls of Millvale! 
 
 NOTE — These lines were written on observing 
 the varied effect of the wind on the falls, now 
 causing the water to flow over a portion, or por- 
 tions, and now over the whole of the declivity. 
 
 (32) 
 
THE MAPLES AND THE PINES. 
 
 Spendthrifts for a gala day, 
 Donned the maples garments gay 
 
 Which among the pines they wore. 
 They looked bright; but what had they 
 
 When the great event was o'er? 
 
 Do I think that so arrayed 
 Envy in the pines they made — 
 
 Envy of their new attire? 
 No; the pines, forever staid, 
 
 Had to match it no desire. 
 
 "Better," lisped the pines to me, 
 "Better, better far, to be 
 
 Clad like us throughout the year 
 Than to don such finery 
 
 And ere long so bare appear." 
 
 A STORY OF THE WIND. 
 
 A maple wood, with its leaves aglow, 
 Burned in the vale, but it burned too slow 
 For the Wind that down from the cold hills came 
 To feel the warmth of its ruddy flame. 
 
 "This fire is red," said the Wind, '*but I 
 Can make it red as the sunset sky; 
 'Tis very good, but if fanned by me. 
 With my great wings, it will better be." 
 
 He fanned it long and he fanned it fast. 
 And well you know what he found at last, — 
 That he, foolish Wind, had fanned it out 
 And saddened the vale for miles about. 
 
 Ah! then he sighed o'er the darkened wood 
 And chid himself in regretful mood; 
 But never since then has he been known 
 To let one leafy fire alone. 
 
 (33) 
 
THE BURIAL OF BRADFORD. 
 
 The rocky coast and the windy bay, 
 
 And the cloudy sky that hangs them o'er, 
 
 To Plymouth look, on this solemn day, 
 More wild and savage than e'er before. 
 
 For Plymouth now has her leader lost. 
 
 Whose heart was bravest, whose word was best; 
 
 Who gave her courage when darkly tost, 
 And put her doubts and her fears to rest. 
 
 She bears him now on his simple bier, 
 Above the rocks and the sounding surge; 
 
 She mourns for him, but she hides her tear; 
 She mourns for him, but she sings no dirge. 
 
 She lays him there on the hilltop bare, 
 With her trainband's volley o'er his grave, 
 
 And turns away with a silent prayer 
 
 That she, like him, may be strong and brave. 
 
 PLYMOUTH ROCK. 
 
 Oh, the wondrous, the All-Being! 
 Oh, the wondrous, the All-Seeing! — 
 'Twas His purpose, in the vast 
 Silent eons of the past, 
 That this boulder here should be 
 
 Unto them a stepping-stone. 
 Who, inspired, should cross the sea. 
 
 Here to walk with Him alone. 
 
 Guided by His mighty hand, 
 From its far-off native land. 
 In a slowly moving floe 
 Of a dim age, long ago, 
 We can see it hither come. 
 
 To its station by the sea. 
 Here amid the tossing foam 
 
 To fulfill its destiny. 
 
 (34) 
 
Guided by the selfsame hand, 
 From their distant fatherland, 
 O'er a waste of unknown sea, 
 Into deep'ning mystery, 
 We can see the Pilgrims come, 
 
 Reach it with their straining oar, 
 And amid the tossing foam 
 
 Greet its welcome to this shore. 
 
 PLYMOUTH ROCK AND MARY CHILTON. 
 
 For us now your lips unlock. 
 Break your silence, Plymouth Rock! 
 Speak, gray witness, speak, and tell 
 What you still remember well 
 Of that maiden first to land 
 Of the little Pilgrim band; 
 Share with us your memory; 
 Let us Mary Chilton see! 
 
 History tells us little more 
 Than that she was first ashore, — 
 Little save her years and name; 
 Speak, old rock, and History shame! 
 Make to us her figure known, 
 Every charm that was her own; 
 Share with us your memory; 
 Let us Mary Chilton see! 
 
 Speak, and tell us if her face 
 Proved her born of Saxon race; 
 If she had as native wealth 
 Saxon strength and Saxon health; 
 If the image that we bear 
 In our bosom is less fair. 
 Is less nobly fair than she! 
 Let us Mary Chilton see! 
 
 (35) 
 
THE MAYFLOWER ON BRADFORD'S GRAVE. 
 
 There was no tender tribute paid 
 When, custom-bound, our fathers laid 
 
 Their leader here at rest. 
 Our fathers, though they deeply felt. 
 Austerely with their bosoms dealt 
 
 And half their good represt. 
 
 They checked midway the rising tear. 
 And silently they left him here, 
 
 Without or wreaths or flowers. 
 They left him with his God, we know; 
 But who of us would bury so 
 
 The well-beloved of ours? 
 
 When thoughts like these were in my mind, 
 Oh! doubly sweet it was to find 
 
 The Mayflower on his grave; 
 God's tribute, paid in tenderest way. 
 To him whose latest month was May 
 
 And whose whole life was brave. 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S HORSE. 
 
 So much we have heard of Paul Revere, 
 Somewhat of his horse we now would hear. 
 His horse whose part in his midnight ride 
 Should not be forgot but magnified, — 
 His noble horse that served him so well: 
 What fate was it that this horse befell? 
 
 Why is it not on the lips of Fame 
 What was his color and what his name; 
 When he was born and when he did die. 
 And where, like our fathers', his ashes lie; 
 How much he did to spread that alarm 
 That woke each Middlesex village and farm? 
 
 (36) 
 
Ah! who can doubt that, waiting to ride, 
 His master patted and stroked his side, 
 Thinking how far he must pierce the night 
 Through sombre darkness and spectral light. 
 How fleet he must be, how fearless, too. 
 How much 'twas his for a nation to do? 
 
 Only a horse! but whenever we hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 
 Let us imagine his "bulk in the dark," 
 
 His "shape in the light," and, leaning, hark 
 
 As if to hear the sound of his feet 
 
 As they on the sands and ledges beat! 
 
 THE OLD BELFRY AT LEXINGTON. 
 
 Historic structure, many come to see! 
 
 I can but think, while contemplating thee, 
 
 That thou wouldst not look always idle down 
 
 Upon the little, picturesque, old town 
 
 "Whose fame thou sharest; but wouldst take some 
 
 part 
 In what makes up its life, as time-worn as thou 
 
 art; 
 
 That thou wouldst have thy bell restored to thee 
 
 And heard on every anniversary 
 
 Of that great day when, from the neighboring 
 
 farms. 
 It called the ready minutemen to arms, 
 And always when, to mix with kindred clay, 
 Some patriotic heart is near thee laid away; 
 
 And, more, when some proud daughter or proud 
 
 son 
 Of the old town — may it have many a one! — 
 Before its altar stands with earnest face 
 And makes more sacred still that sacred place. 
 So have I thought, while contemplating thee. 
 And much I hope the thought in other minds 
 
 may be. 
 
 (37) 
 
STANZAS 
 
 On Receiving the Thumb- Piece of the Old Door* 
 Latch of the Whittier Birthplace. 
 
 **I call to mind the summer day. 
 
 The early harvest mowing, 
 The sky with sun and cloud at play 
 
 And flowers with breezes blowing." 
 
 -WHITTIER. 
 
 The poet in his youth I see; 
 I meet him coming from the lea 
 Where, brown as any mower, he 
 
 Has swung his scythe today. 
 I seek with him his father's door; 
 But ere we pass its threshold o'er, 
 He needs must view the vale once more 
 
 Beneath the sunset ray. 
 
 He tells me that in all around, 
 In all by his horizon bound, 
 He has today a beauty found 
 
 He will remember long; 
 That oft today, with raptured ear. 
 He has delayed his scythe to hear 
 The blackbird on the hillside near 
 
 Repeat its summer song. 
 
 He does not know that in those hours 
 Just passed among the meadow flowers 
 The Muse to him has given powers 
 
 That shall grow more and more; 
 But in his looks the gift I see, 
 I read in them his destiny; 
 The poet of the years to be 
 
 Stands by me at his door. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Suggested by a Cottager's Letter. 
 
 The winds are bleak and cold, 
 That, coursing wood and wold, 
 Assail our cottage old, 
 This wintry day, — 
 
 (38) 
 
When sharper-cut each height 
 Looks o'er our landscape white, 
 Upon our verge of sight. 
 Long leagues away. 
 
 What matters it? — this storm 
 Of winds that rise enorm? — 
 We gather snug and warm 
 
 Before our fire, 
 In peace of heart and mind. 
 Knowing that our dumb kind 
 A fitting shelter find 
 
 In barn and byre. 
 
 Who now looks outdoors must 
 Se« snows, like clouds of dust, 
 Blown by each sudden gust 
 
 Across the fields; 
 And many a blinding glare 
 Where falls, through the dry air, 
 The sun on ices bare, 
 
 And no warmth yields. 
 
 We have not much; but see 
 How much today have we 
 That causes poverty 
 
 To be forgot! 
 What coziness is found 
 Our humble hearth around! 
 Blessings to us abound 
 
 In our own thought. 
 
 Thanks for these walls so rude! 
 Thanks for this fire of wood! 
 Thanks for each homely good. 
 
 This wintry day! 
 When winds so bleak and cold. 
 From frozen wood and wold, 
 Assail our cottage old, 
 
 And whirl away. 
 
 (39) 
 
THE HOUSE OF TIPSY TIM. 
 
 Tipsy Tim, whose kith and kin 
 Bore with patience his great sin, 
 Lived for years this old house in; 
 Staggered up this windy hill, 
 Fell across this doorway sill, 
 O'er and o'er again, until 
 Death — his friend, it was no less, — 
 Put an end to his excess. 
 Giving him its quietness. 
 
 Tipsy Tim a helpmeet had, 
 Who, while life with love was clad, 
 Made his sober bosom glad; 
 But, alas! in after years. 
 Daily drying her own tears, 
 She grew crazy in her fears. 
 And when Tipsy Tim had died. 
 Left her doors and windows wide 
 To the peeping countryside. 
 
 "Let the winds," she used to say 
 In her wild, demented way, 
 "Here carouse, by night and day; 
 Fill these rooms with noisy rout. 
 Holding here their drinking bout, 
 R'^eling in and reeling out; 
 Till this house, that here and there 
 Testifies to wear and tear, 
 Looks the picture of despair!" 
 
 In a way that no one knows 
 She at last found that repose 
 That was balm for all her woes; 
 And the winds she welcomed here 
 Have been blowing many a year 
 Through this house, with antics queer. 
 Wrecking it as Tim had done 
 Had he lived another sun: 
 Theirs the work by him begun! 
 
 (40) 
 
FIFTY-EIGHT. 
 
 September 19, 1901. 
 The bells are tolling fifty-eight; 
 
 It is the funeral hour; 
 And heavier, heavier grows the weight 
 
 That God alone hath power 
 To lift from our sad hearts; in Him 
 
 Alone is our relief; 
 He knows our eyes with tears are dim 
 
 And bitter is our grief. 
 
 The bells are tolling fifty- eight, 
 
 And every knell they toll 
 Makes deeper felt how good and great 
 
 That calm and saintly soul 
 Who walked among us and confest 
 
 The Christ that walks beside, 
 Who gave to us his noblest, best, 
 
 And in our service died. 
 
 THE MONSTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 There is a monster in the midst of us, 
 And we have been so tolerant of it, 
 
 It has grown bold, protruding its sharp claws. 
 Worse than the worst of monsters fabulous; 
 So horrible there is no language fit 
 
 For its portrayal, with its hungry jaws. 
 It craves the blood that in our highest flows, — 
 The precious blood that warms the central heart 
 
 Behind our institutions and our laws; 
 It scents that, and its eye with hell-fire glows; — 
 Waking, it watches; sleeping, oft does start, 
 
 As if to glut at once its worst of maws. 
 
 II. 
 
 And now — Oh, shame upon our tolerance! — 
 This monster we should long ago have killed, 
 
 (41) 
 
Has sprung, appeased its hunger, and retired, — 
 Though in our presence still, — with looks askance. 
 Like any guilty thing. What now is willed? 
 
 Are there not men among us, passion-fired, 
 To seek and slay the monster, as of old 
 The fearless god the horrid dragon slew? 
 
 Is courage wanting? Aught that is required? 
 Or is this monster, cowardly yet bold, 
 To crouch among us and to spring anew, 
 
 As if to slay it none had been inspired? 
 
 JOSEPH PUTNAM. 
 
 1692. 
 
 Here lies Joe Putnam, who did not fear 
 To cry "Delusion!" so all might hear, 
 When orthodox Salem, without the light 
 Whereby the scriptures are read aright. 
 Believed, in its dark surmise of ill, 
 'Twas hanging witches on Gallows Hill. 
 
 With every charge of the "evil eye," 
 
 He gave the church and the court the lie; 
 
 And loudly laughing at threatened harm. 
 
 He stoutly shouldered his old queen's-arm. 
 
 With such defiance that he was not 
 
 For his great offence to trial brought. 
 
 The doughty hero of that dark day, 
 Time takes no lustre from him away. 
 Who prophesied all that Salem felt 
 When it in the light of reason knelt. 
 Praying forgiveness with deepening sense 
 Of guilt and its awful consequence. 
 
 (42) 
 
SEEKERS OF GLOOSKAP. 
 
 A Micmac Legend. 
 
 "A very ancient or truly aboriginal tale." 
 
 — Charles Godfrey Leland. 
 
 All men were told that whoso seeks 
 The Master gains his wish, and lo! 
 Uprose two firm believers, led 
 By their most earnest wish, and said: 
 "Pray, let us to the Master go!" 
 
 They knew that he abode beyond 
 
 The mazes of the wilderness, 
 
 Through thickets they must thrid their way; 
 
 But they bore on from day to day 
 
 With little promise of success. 
 
 Then, fearful lest they miss their quest. 
 They climbed a hill and looked around. 
 And saw a graceful column rise 
 Slow-curling to the distant skies, 
 And where it rose a wigwam found. 
 
 Therein they spake with one who seemed 
 More than a man, so high he sat; 
 He bade them welcome o'er and o'er. 
 And they were glad to rest once more — 
 Limb -weary — on a wigwam mat. 
 
 The land was fair beyond compare, — 
 
 A land of meres and rivers calm. 
 
 Of meadows green and broad and long, — 
 
 A land of flowers, sun and song, 
 
 And woods whose every breath was balm. 
 
 They saw that he who welcomed them 
 A great magician was, for lo! 
 He made all burdens light, he took 
 From age its worn and withered look, 
 By magic none beside did know. 
 
 (43) 
 
At lengrth he asked them whom they sought; 
 
 They answered, "Glooskap," and were awed, 
 
 For he made answer, "I am he:" 
 
 A glory and a majesty 
 
 Sat on him, — they had found the god. 
 
 Whereat they rose and humbly said: 
 "We are not loved, for we are rude, 
 Are quick to wrath, are given to guile, 
 Are prone our neighbors to revile, 
 But would be loved, upright and good." 
 
 The Master listened to them well. 
 As listens he to all who come 
 Before him. Then, with blessing, he 
 Said unto them: "So shall it be!" 
 And they departed, going home. 
 
 And when they had reached home again 
 (Where they at first by none were known), 
 Soon gathered round them old and young, 
 And in their grateful presence hung 
 With looks that inward pleasure own. 
 
 Thenceforth they loved and were beloved, 
 So changed were they and their estate; 
 And lo! a needful change they wrought 
 In others' daily life and thought. 
 And their reward therefor was great. 
 
 Oh! not in vain this legend now, 
 Which I beside my fire have told 
 To children in this simple way. 
 Repeat it to yourself today; 
 O'erlook its dross and prize its gold. 
 
 (44) 
 
THE STORM LEDGE. 
 
 I climbed old Katahdin to find 
 That ledge — very oft in my mind — 
 Through which, as in story we're told, 
 In story now centuries old, 
 A hunter was led as through air, 
 By one who was wondrously fair. 
 To rest by an emberless fire. 
 Unharmed, in the cave of her sire, 
 Who sent forth his sons at his will 
 To battle the spirits of ill, 
 And straightway recalled them to rest 
 When they had performed his behest; 
 For he was the god of the storm, 
 The god of the tempest enorm 
 That flashes and crashes and fills 
 With tremor the vales and the hills. 
 
 I climbed all in vain; but somewhere 
 The crest of Katahdin must bear 
 What was to the Indian of old 
 The ledge of the legend I've told; 
 And thereat some climber may see 
 How fearful the tempest can be 
 About such a towering height 
 In all the grim blackness of night; 
 And hearing the wilderness roar 
 Around him like ocean's torn shore, 
 May wish some good angel would make 
 A cave in the ledge for his sake, 
 A shelter, a refuge, that he 
 Secure from the tempest might be, 
 Assured of the merciful ward — 
 In that terrible hour — of God. 
 
 [The ledge is described in the Passamaquoddy 
 legend as "a high ledge like an immense wall, hav- 
 ing a platform at its foot."] 
 
 (45) 
 
WHY THE PARTRIDGE LIVES IN THE BUSH. 
 
 (A Passamaquoddy Legend.) 
 
 The partridge built boats for his brothers — 
 The bluebird, the blackbird, and others — 
 And built them so well that he found 
 They did to his credit redound. 
 
 "So well you have done," said his brothers, 
 "In building staunch boats for all others, 
 Why don't you, against some disaster, 
 Build one for yourself, worthy master?" 
 
 Then strutting around as if he 
 Were lord of the land and the sea, 
 He said, with his head lifted high, — 
 "The greatest boat-builder am I. 
 
 "I'll build me a boat that shall be 
 A wonder, a marvel to see, 
 So fair and so fast, it shall seem, 
 To all that behold it, a dream." 
 
 So, all he had done to outdo. 
 He thought out a boat wholly new, 
 A boat quite unique in its plan, 
 And straightway to build it began. 
 
 And when he had built it, he cried 
 To all of his brothers, with pride, — 
 "Lo! here is my boat;" but he found 
 When paddled it simply turned round! 
 
 Then full of chagrin, for he knew 
 His brothers saw all, he withdrew 
 And hid in the bush far away, 
 Where he has remained to this day. 
 
 (46) 
 
THE RATTLERS. 
 
 (Passamaquoddy.) 
 
 The worst of all snakes are the rattlers, 
 
 The Passamaquoddy will say; 
 The rattlers, for once they were Indians 
 
 Whose impudent, impious way 
 Vexed Glooskap so oft that he told them 
 
 A great flood was coming- and they 
 Would drown in its waters provided 
 
 They chose not to change and to pray. 
 
 Whereat these bold Indians grew bolder 
 
 And got out their rattles — their shells 
 Wherein there were pebbles — and shook them, 
 
 And danced with wild gestures and yells. 
 The flood came with lightning incessant, 
 
 With fury no tongue fitly tells, 
 And still they kept shaking their rattles, 
 
 Though earth seemed the worst of all hells. 
 
 Then Glooskap was angry and thought how 
 
 To live might be worse than to die: 
 He changed these bold Indians to rattlers, 
 
 And rattlers they are; you and I 
 Can see them, forever degraded, 
 
 Still dancing with heads lifted high: 
 They shake, to forewarn us, their rattles — 
 
 'Tis best not to venture too nigh. 
 
 (47) 
 
1908 
 
 /