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 '^;iMi*r^i'^:^ ^ 
 
d&notD^25ounti: 31 Winttt Sjtipl 
 
SNOW-BOUND 
 
 A WINTER IDYi: BY 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAFWHITTIER 
 
 WITH DESIGNS BY 
 
 E H GARRETT 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 M DCCC XCII 
 
 n>%^ 
 
 Q^G W 
 

 Copyright, 1866, 
 Bv JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 
 
 Copyright, 1891, 
 By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN 81 CO. 
 
 A// rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S.A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD IT DESCRIBES 
 
 <SLW poem i^ 5BebicateD 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
prefatory iPote 
 
 MM Ml HE inmates of the family at the 
 3 SS Whittier homestead who are referred 
 aSlB to in the poem were my father, 
 mother, my brother and two sisters, and my 
 uncle and aunt both unmarried. In addition, 
 there was the district school-master who 
 boarded with us. The "not unfeared, half- 
 welcome guest" was Harriet Livermore, 
 daughter of Judge Livermore, of New Hamp- 
 shire, a young woman of fine natural ability, 
 enthusiastic, eccentric, with slight control over 
 her violent temper, which sometimes made 
 her religious profession doubtful. She was 
 equally ready to exhort in school-house prayer- 
 meetings and dance in a Washington ball-room, 
 while her father was a member of Congress. 
 She early embraced the doctrine of the Second 
 Advent, and felt it her duty to proclaim the 
 V 
 
^xtmar^ 0att 
 
 Lord's speedy coming. With this message 
 she crossed the Atlantic and spent the greater 
 part of a long life in travelling over Europe 
 and Asia. She lived some time with Lady 
 Hester Stanhope, a woman as fantastic and 
 mentally strained as herself, on the slope of 
 Mt. Lebanon, but finally quarrelled with her 
 in regard to two white horses with red marks 
 on their backs which suggested the idea of sad- 
 dles, on which her titled hostess expected 
 to ride into Jerusalem with the Lord. A 
 friend of mine found her, when quite an old 
 woman, wandering in Syria with a tribe of 
 Arabs, who with the Oriental notion that mad- 
 ness is inspiration, accepted her as their pro- 
 phetess and leader. At the time referred to in 
 Snow-Bound she was boarding at the Rocks 
 Village about two miles from us. 
 
 In my boyhood, in our lonely farm-house, 
 we had scanty sources of information ; few 
 books and only a small weekly newspaper. 
 Our only annual was the Almanac. Under 
 such circumstances story-telling was a neces- 
 vi 
 
\BxcUtavp 0aU 
 
 sary resource in the long winter evenings. My 
 father when a young man had traversed the 
 wilderness to Canada, and could tell us of his 
 adventures with Indians and wild beasts, and 
 of his sojourn in the French villages. My 
 uncle was ready with his record of hunting 
 and fishing and, it must be confessed, with 
 stories which he at least half believed, of 
 witchcraft and apparitions. My mother, who 
 was born in the Indian-haunted region of 
 Somerworth, New Hampshire, between Dover 
 and Portsmouth, told us of the inroads of the 
 savages, and the narrow escape of her ances- 
 tors. She described strange people who lived 
 on the Piscataqua and Cocheco, among whom 
 was Bantam the sorcerer. I have in my pos- 
 session the wizard's " conjuring book," which 
 he solemnly opened when consulted. It is a 
 copy of Cornelius Agrippa's Magzc printed in 
 1 65 1, dedicated to Dr. Robert Child, who, like 
 Michael Scott, had learned 
 
 " the art of glammorie 
 In Padua beyond the sea," 
 vii 
 
Prefatory ^att 
 
 and who is famous in the annals of Massa- 
 chusetts, where he was at one time a resident, 
 as the first man who dared petition the General 
 Court for liberty of conscience. The full title 
 of the book is T/iree Books of Occult Philoso- 
 phy, by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, Knight, 
 Doctor of both Laws, Counsellor to CcEsar's 
 Sacred Majesty and Judge of the Prerogative 
 Court. 
 
 J. G. W. 
 
ILfet of 3lltotratton0 
 
 PAGB 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier Frontispiece '^ 
 
 " We looked upon a world unknown " 4 "^ 
 
 " We reached the barn with merry din, 
 And roused the prisoned brutes within " . . . . 6 '- 
 
 " The moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full " 10 
 
 " We sped the time with stories old " 13' 
 
 " Our uncle, innocent of books, 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks " 18 
 
 " I see the violet-sprinkled sod . . . 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek " .... 23 
 
 " A not unfeared, half-welcome guest ** 29 
 
 " Our mother . . . seeking to express 
 Her grateful sense of happiness " 33 "^ 
 
 " The wise old Doctor went his round " 36 
 
 The. Photogravures were executed by A. W. Elson if Co., -Boston. 
 
" As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, 
 so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are aug- 
 mented not only by the Divine Ught 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 same." — Cor. Agrippa, Occult Phi- 
 losophy, 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, enclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 
 
 Emerson. The Snow Storm. 
 

 HE sun that brief December 
 day 
 Rose cheerless over hills of 
 
 And darkly circled, gave at noon 
 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 
 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, 
 
 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, 
 
 ^ 
 
^miXi'Maxtvits : ^ miinttx Bspl 
 
 The coming of the snow-storm told. 
 The wind blew east j we heard the roar 
 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, — 
 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, 
 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 
 And down his querulous challenge sent. 
 
^n0to-280untr : ^ miinttx 3EtfgI 
 
 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, 
 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 
 
 posts 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 
 
 SO all night long the storm roared on : 
 The morning broke without a sun j 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 In starry flake, and pellicle, 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 And, when the second morning shone. 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 3 
 
^nofitj--^0untr : ^ miinttx Biyl 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 
 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 
 
 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 ; 
 The bridle-post an old man sat 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof j 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 
 
^n0&)-380untf: ^ ^imintnr StrgT 
 
 A PROMPT, decisive man, no breath 
 Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " 
 Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 
 Count such a summons less than joy ?) 
 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. 
 And, where the drift was deepest, made 
 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 
 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 ; 
 The cock his lusty greeting said, 
 5 
 
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, 
 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 be- 
 fore ; 
 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. 
 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 
 6 
 
^not»--28otmif : ^ WSiinttv itfsl 
 
 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 
 Beyond the circle of our hearth 
 No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
 Unbound the spell, and testified 
 Of human life and thought outside. 
 We minded that the sharpest ear 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 The music of whose liquid lip 
 Had been to us companionship, 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 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, 
 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 ; 
 7 
 
^mfsi''^aur(n : ^ Similiter itfgl 
 
 The knotty forestick laid apart, 
 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, 
 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 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed. 
 The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 Whispered the old rhyme i " Under the tree, 
 When fire outdoors burns merrily^ 
 There the witches are making tea.^^ 
 
^not»'3S0untr : ^ mtinttx IHgT 
 
 THE moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full; the hill-range 
 stood 
 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 
 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. 
 
 SHUT in from all the world without, 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth 
 about. 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 In baffled rage at pane and door, 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 9 
 
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 ; 
 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, 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
 The mug of cider simmered slow. 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 WHAT matter how the night be- 
 haved ? 
 What matter how the north-wind raved ? 
 Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
 Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 
 
 lO 
 
O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 
 
 As was my sire's that winter day, 
 
 How strange it seems, with so much gone 
 
 Of Ufe and love, to still live on ! 
 
 Ah, brother ! only I and thou 
 
 Are left of all that circle now, — 
 
 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 
 
 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 II 
 
^m^-MauntSi % Sumter itrgl 
 
 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 ! 
 Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, 
 Nor looks to see the breaking day 
 Across the mournful marbles play ! 
 Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, 
 
 The truth to flesh and sense unknown. 
 That Life is ever lord of Death, 
 
 And Love can never lose its own V) 
 
 WE sped the time with stories old. 
 Wrought puzzles out, and riddles 
 told, 
 Or stammered from our school-book lore 
 " The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." 
 How often since, when all the land 
 Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand. 
 As if a far-blown trumpet stirred 
 
 12 
 
The languorous sin-sick air, I heard : 
 ** Z>oes not the voice of reason cry, 
 
 Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
 From the red scourge of bondage fiy^ 
 
 Nor deign to live a burdened slave ! " 
 Our father rode again his ride 
 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 ; 
 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 
 The grandam and the laughing girl. 
 Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
 Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 
 
 Mile-wide as flies the laden bee ; 
 Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
 13 
 
^ntrtD'330untr: ^ miinttx Bsj^l 
 
 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 ; 
 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 sigh and marvel told 
 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 gundelow 
 And idle lay the useless oars. 
 
 OUR mother, while she turned her 
 wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 
 14 
 
^n0t»--380tintr : ^ miintex Bs^il 
 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 At midnight on Cocheco town, 
 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 
 Of simple life and country ways,) 
 The story of her early days, — 
 She made us welcome to her home j 
 Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 
 We stole with her a frightened look 
 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, 
 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 
 
 IS 
 
^notD -280unXf : ^ miinttx StrgX 
 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 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. 
 
 T 
 
 HEN, haply, with a look more grave 
 And soberer tone, some tale she 
 
 -■ave 
 
 From painful Sewell's ancient tome, 
 Beloved in every Quaker home, 
 Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, 
 Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — 
 Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint ! 
 Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 
 And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 
 And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 
 His portly presence mad for food, 
 With dark hints muttered under breath 
 Of casting lots for life or death, 
 Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, 
 i6 
 
^natO'Bountr: ^ ammter BsqI 
 
 To be himself the sacrifice. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if to save 
 
 The good man from his living grave, 
 
 A ripple on the water grew, 
 
 A school of porpoise flashed in view. 
 
 " Take, eat," he said, " and be content ; 
 
 These fishes in my stead are sent 
 
 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 
 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 
 In 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. 
 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries ; 
 17 
 
Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 
 Like Apollonius of old, 
 Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 
 Or Hermes who interpreted 
 What the sage cranes of Nilus said ; 
 Content to live where life began ; 
 A simple, guileless, childlike man, 
 Strong only on his native grounds, 
 The little world of sights and sounds 
 Whose girdle was the parish bounds, 
 Whereof his fondly partial pride 
 The common features magnified, 
 As Surrey hills to mountains grew 
 In White of Selborne's loving view, — 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got. 
 The feats on pond and river done. 
 The prodigies of rod and gun ; 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 i8 
 
^nDto-380untr : ^ Similiter StrgX 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold, 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
 19 
 
^n0&)-^0untf: ^ miinttv ElrgX 
 
 And welcome wheresoe'er she went, 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet in- 
 come 
 And womanly atmosphere of home, — 
 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 
 A golden woof-thread of romance. 
 For well she kept her genial mood 
 And simple faith of maidenhood ; 
 Before her still a cloud-land lay, 
 The mirage loomed across her way ; 
 The morning dew, that dries 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 
 The virgin fancies of the heart. 
 20 
 
Be shame to him of woman born 
 
 Who hath for such but thought of scorn. 
 
 THERE, too, our elder sister plied 
 ' Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 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 
 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 
 With thee beneath the low green tent 
 Whose curtain never outward swings ! 
 
 A 
 
 S one who held herself a part 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 
 21 
 
^n0i)O'38oun» : ^ miiiittt Bf^l 
 
 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, A 
 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
 
 Now bathed in the unfading green 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 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 : — 
 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, 
 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. 
 The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 
 
 22 
 
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, 
 
 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, 
 
 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, 
 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 ; 
 And when the sunset gates unbar, 
 23 
 
Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
 And, white against the evening star. 
 The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 
 
 B 
 
 RISK wielder of the birch and rule, 
 'The master of the district school 
 Held at the fire his favored place, ^ 
 Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce ap- 
 peared 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 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 
 By patient toil subsistence scant. 
 Not competence and yet not want. 
 He early gained the power to pay 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way ; 
 24 
 
^noiD'2S0untf : ^ WIKinttv 3JtfBl 
 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 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, 
 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, 
 His winter task a pastime made. 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 He tuned his merry violin. 
 Or played the athlete in the barn, 
 Or held the good dame's winding-yarn, 
 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 
 25 
 
'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; 
 Where Pindus-born Arachthus took 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 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. 
 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, 
 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 The darkness and the ignorance. 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 26 
 
^n0to-a80imXf : ^ Sminter Strgl 
 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous 
 
 growth, 
 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 The cruel lie of caste refute, 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 ANOTHER guest that winter night 
 Flashed back from lustrous eyes the 
 light. 
 
 27 
 
^nottJ'^ountf : ^ miinttt Bs^l 
 
 Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
 The honeyed music of her tongue 
 And words of meekness scarcely told 
 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, 
 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. 
 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 
 Condemned to share her love or hate. 
 28 
 
^n0&j'38ountf : ^ W&iinttv itrgl 
 
 A woman tropical, intense 
 In thought and act, in soul and sense, 
 She blended in a like degree 
 The vixen and the devotee. 
 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 ; 
 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 
 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 ! 
 29 
 
Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thor- 
 oughfares, 
 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 
 The crazy Queen of Lebanon 
 With claims fantastic as her own. 
 Her tireless feet have held their way ; 
 And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 
 She watches under Eastern skies, 
 With hope each day renewed and fresh, 
 The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, 
 Whereof she dreams and prophesies ! 
 
 T T 7 HERE'ER her troubled path may 
 
 The Lord's sweet pity with her go ! 
 The outward wayward life we see, 
 
 The hidden springs we may not know. 
 Nor is it given us to discern 
 30 
 
What threads the fatal sisters spun, 
 
 Through what ancestral years has run 
 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, 
 
 A life-long 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 
 
 The tangled skein of will and fate. 
 To show what metes and bounds should 
 
 stand 
 Upon the soul's debatable land, 
 And between choice and Providence 
 Divide the circle of events ; 
 But He who knows our frame is just, 
 Merciful and compassionate, 
 And full of sweet assurances 
 31 
 
^noi»=280ttntr : ^ miinttv 3Etfgl 
 
 And hope for all the language is, 
 That He remembereth we are dust ! 
 
 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 
 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. 
 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 
 Her grateful sense of happiness 
 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
 And love's contentment more than wealth, 
 32 
 
^no&)'380untr: ^ miinttr ItrgX 
 
 With simple wishes (not the weak, 
 Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 
 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 
 The wind that round the gables 
 roared, 
 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 ; 
 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, 
 Till in the summer-land of dreams 
 They softened to the sound of streams, 
 33 
 
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
 And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 
 
 NEXT morn we wakened with the 
 shout 
 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, 
 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, 
 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, 
 34 
 
And woodland paths that wound be- 
 tween 
 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 
 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. 
 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, 
 Just pausing at our door to say, 
 In the brief autocratic way 
 35 
 
Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, 
 Was free to urge her claim on all, 
 
 That some poor neighbor sick abed 
 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 ? 
 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 ! ' 
 
 SO days went on : a week had passed 
 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 
 From younger eyes, a book forbid, 
 
 36 
 
And poetry, (or good or bad, 
 
 A single book was all we had,) 
 
 Where EUwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
 
 A stranger to the heathen Nine, 
 
 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. 
 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 
 
 In Costa Rica's everglades. 
 And up Taygetos winding slow 
 Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 
 A Turk's head at each saddle-bow ! 
 Welcome to us its week-old news, 
 Its corner for the rustic Muse, 
 
 Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, 
 
 37 
 
Its record, mingling in a breath 
 The wedding knell and dirge of death j 
 Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale. 
 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. 
 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 ! , 
 
 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. 
 Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past ; 
 Where, closely mingling, pale and glow 
 38 
 
^nafsymauvLis : ^ miinttv itfsl 
 
 The characters of joy and woe ; 
 The monographs of outlived years, 
 Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 
 
 Green hills of life that slope to death. 
 And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
 Shade off to mournful cypresses 
 
 With the v/hite amaranths underneath. 
 Even while I look, I can but heed 
 
 The restless sands' incessant fall, 
 Importunate hours that hours succeed, 
 Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
 
 And duty keeping pace with all. 
 Shut down and clasp the heavy lids ; 
 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 ! 
 
 39 
 
^naixi'Maunts : ^ W^inttt SEtrgl 
 
 YET, haply, in some lull of life, 
 Some Truce of God which breaks 
 its strife. 
 The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, 
 
 Dreaming in throngful city ways 
 Of winter joys his boyhood knew ; 
 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 
 
 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, 
 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. 
 40 
 
Page 12. The Chief of Gambia's golden 
 shore. The African Chief y^z.s the title of a 
 poem by Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Morton, wife 
 of the Hon. Perez Morton, a former attorney- 
 general of Massachusetts. Mrs. Morton's 
 nom de plume was Philenia. The school 
 book in which The African Chief yN2iS printed 
 was Caleb Bingham's The American Pre- 
 ceptor^ and the poem contained fifteen stanzas, 
 of which the first four were as follows : — 
 
 " See how the black ship cleaves the main 
 High-bounding o'er the violet wave, 
 Remurmuring with the groans of pain, 
 Deep freighted with the princely slave. 
 
 " Did all the gods of Afric sleep. 
 Forgetful of their guardian love. 
 When the white traitors of the deep 
 Betrayed him in the palmy grove ? 
 
 h 41 
 
" A chief of Gambia's golden shore, 
 Whose arm the band of warriors led, 
 Perhaps the lord of boundless power, 
 By whom the foodless poor were fed. 
 
 " 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 biurdened slave ' ? " 
 
 Page 17. To spare the child of Abraham. 
 Chalkley's own narrative of this incident, as 
 given in his yournal^ 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 bless you ! I will not eat any of 
 you.' Another said, ' He would 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 proposition : and as I was 
 leaning over the side of the vessel, thought- 
 fully considering my proposal to the company, 
 42 
 
and looking 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 readily 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 mur- 
 mured no more. We caught enough to eat 
 plentifully of, till we got into the capes of 
 Delaware." 
 
 Page 30. T/ie crazy Queen of Lebanon. An 
 interesting account of Lady Hester Stanhope 
 may be found in Kinglake's Eothen, chapter 
 viii. 
 
 Page 35. The wise old Doctor went his 
 round. Dr. Weld of Haverhill, an old man, 
 who died at the age of ninety-six. 
 
 43 
 

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