THE POETIC NEW-WORLD UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME THE POETIC OLD-WORLD Compiled by Miss LUCY H. HUMPHREY. Cloth, $1.50 net; leather, $2.50 net. Covers Europe, including Spain, Belgium, and the British Isles, in some two hundred poems from about ninety poets. Some thirty, not originally written in English, are given in both the original and the best available translations. "Admirable. The selections are fine and representative and surprisingly nu- merous. . . . Should prove a distinct acquisition to the traveling-satchel . . . a charming gift." Chicago Record- Herald. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK THE POETIC NEW-WORLD COMPILED BY LUCY H. HUMPHREY " I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear." Walt Whitman NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1910 This land, My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurry- ing tides, and the ships, The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn. Walt Whitman. COPYRIGHT, 1910 BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Stanbope ipresa F. H. GILSON COMPANY BOSTON. U.S.A. To A. R. H. AND H. M. H. Nothing so sweete is as our countrie's earth, And joy of those from whom we claime our birth." UNMANIFEST DESTINY To what new fates, my country, far And unforeseen of foe or friend, Beneath what unexpected star, Compelled to what unchosen end, Across the sea that knows no beach The Admiral of Nations guides Thy blind obedient keels to reach The harbor where thy future rides ! The guns that spoke at Lexington Knew not that God was planning then The trumpet word of Jefferson To bugle forth the rights of men. To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, What was it but despair and shame ? Who saw behind the cloud the sun ? Who knew that God was in the flame? Had not defeat upon defeat, Disaster on disaster come, The slave's emancipated feet Had never marched behind the drum. There is a Hand that bends our deeds To mightier issues than we planned, Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds, My country, serves Its dark command. I do not know beneath what sky Nor on what seas shall be thy fate; I only know it shall be high, I only know it shall be great. Richard Honey. PREFACE THIS little book is intended for travelers, but even more for patriots. Each section of our country has its own his- tory, local color and charm, which are more or less reflected in our American poetry. I have attempted to gather together in this volume those descriptive and historic poems which will give an impression of the whole country. It is possible that some of our poets have not realized the wealth of available material in America, but our literature has only made a be- ginning and the way lies always open. As it is difficult to make a logical arrangement of the states and therefore of the poems, an imaginary itinerary has been chosen, which will take the reader by gentle steps up and down and across the length of the land, a journey through the Poetic New- World. Many well-known patriotic ballads and "war- poems" have been omitted, because they have already been collected in good anthologies and because there is no place for war-time sentiment in a book intended for the entire country. Acknowledgment is made to the following authors and publishers, who have kindly per- Vlll PREFACE mitted the use of copyright poems in this vol- ume: to the Century Company for Poe's Cottage at Fordham; to Mr. Charles Henry Phelps for Yuma; to the son of the late William Allen Butler for Broadway; to Mr. Burton E. Steven- son for Henry Hudson's Quest; to Mr. Bliss Carman for The Path to Sankoty; to the Frank A. Munsey Company for The Song of Panama by A. D. Runyon; to Mr. Joel Benton for Dakota; to Messrs. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard for Mr. Burton's poem The Old Santa Fe Trail; to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons of New York and London and also to Mr. G. S. Hellman for his sonnet The Hudson; to Mr. Ellsworth and Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for The Mayflower; to Messrs. Little, Brown and Co. for Walden Lake and Thoreau's Flute; to Thomas B. Mosher, pub- lisher, and Mrs. Lizette W. Reese for Anne; to Mr. Appleton Morgan for the poem Ipswich Town; to Miss Coolbrith for The Mariposa Lily and Alcatraz; to Mrs. Gertrude Huntington McGiffert for The Maine Trail; to Mr. Horace Traubel and Mr. David McKay for the poems of Walt Whitman; to Mr. Percy MacKaye and the Macmillan Company for a part of Ticonderoga; to Mr. C. W. Moulton for Walter Malone's October in Tennessee; to Mr. Albert B. Paine for In Louisiana; to Mr. Francis F. Browne for Santa Barbara; to Messrs. Harper & Bros, for PREFACE IX poems by Hamlin Garland from The Trail of the Goldseeker and When the Great Gray Ships Come In; to the Whitaker and Ray-Wiggin Co., San Francisco, for the poems by Joaquin Miller; to Mr. Richard Le Gallienne for Dawn on the Brooklyn Bridge, from his recent Poems- to Mr. Walter Learned for The Last Reservation; to Mr. Ernest McGaffey for "Mark"; to Mr. Clarence Urmy for As I Came Down Mount Tamalpais; to Messrs. Duffield & Co. for two poems by Richard Hovey; to Messrs. L. C. Page & Co. for The Brooklyn Bridge and On the Elevated Railroad at noth Street by Charles C. D. Roberts; to the Atlantic Monthly for On a Subway Express by Chester Firkins and The Oldenburys of Sunder- land by Sarah N. Cleghorn; to The New Eng- land Publishing Co. for The Fountain of Youth and Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor; to Mr. Wallace Rice for Mount Rainier by Francis Brooks; The First American Sailors, Chicago and lines from The Racine College Memorial Ode; to Mr. Thomas Wood Stevens for Arizona; to Mr. Ivan Swift for In Michigan; to Mr. Charles Edward Russell for On a South Dakota Farm in March; to The Macmillan Co. and Mrs. Ella Higginson for Moonrise in the Rockies and The Grand Ronde Valley; to Florence Wilkinson for Niagara; to Miss Webb for her father's poem With a Nantucket Shell; and to the J. B. Lippin- X PREFACE cott Co. for Down the Bayou and At Set of Sun by Mary A. Townsend. The poems by Longfellow, Aldrich, Bret Harte, F. D. Sherman, W. V. Moody, W. W. Story, Celia Thaxter, J. T. Trowbridge, J. R. Lowell, .Thoreau, Gilder, Emerson, Nora Perry, Edith M. Thomas, T. W. Parsons, J. G. Saxe, John Hay, Lucy Larcom, Maurice Thompson, E. R. Sill, O. W. Holmes, E. C. Stedman, Bayard Taylor and Whittier are used by per- mission of and by special arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of their works. L. H. H. TABLE OF CONTENTS THE EXPLORERS PAGE FROM THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND /. R. Lowell . . 3 COLUMBUS Sidney Lanier . 5 PRAYER OF COLUMBUS . . Walt Whitman . 6 THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS. Wallace Rice . 10 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH . H. Butterworth . 14 To THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE . M. Dray ton . . ig HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST . B. E. Stevenson . 22 HENRY HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE H. van Dyke . 24 NEW ENGLAND NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES Anon. . . . 35 THE PILGRIM FATHERS . . W. Wordsworth . 37 THE PILGRIM FATHERS . . J. Pierpont . . 38 THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS . W. M. Thackeray 40 MASSACHUSETTS MASSACHUSETTS . . . . J. G. Whittier . 43 Plymouth THE MAYFLOWER . . . E. W. Ellsworth . 45 FROM THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH H. W. Longfellow 47 xi Xll TABLE OF CONTENTS Nantucket PAGE NANTUCKET F. D. Sherman . 49 WITH A NANTUCKET SHELL . C. H. Webb . . 52 THE PATH TO SANKOTY . . Bliss Carman . 54 Cape Cod FIRST LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS R. Southey . . 56 A CAPE COD NATIVE . . H. D. Thoreau . 58 Scituate THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET . 5. Woodworth . 59 Nantasket AGASSIZ ... . . H.W. Longfellow 61 Boston THE HARBOR . . . . R. Southey . . 62 THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR H. Butterworth . 62 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET H.W. Longfellow 66 BOSTON COMMON . . . 0. W. Holmes . 69 FROM AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION . . . . W. V. Moody . 71 THE DORCHESTER GIANT . . 0. W. Holmes . 74 Cambridge FROM THE WASHINGTON ELM J. R. Lowell . . 77 TABLE OF CONTENTS Xlll The Charles River PAGE FROM AN INDIAN SUMMER REVERIE J. R. Lowell . . 77 Lynn THE BELLS OF LYNN . . H. W. Longfellow 83 Marblehead THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY J.G. Whittier . 84 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE . .88 Salem FROM GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS . . . . H.W. Longfellow 92 SALEM W. W. Story . 94 Beverly HANNAH BINDING SHOES . . Lucy Larcom . 97 SKIPPER BEN : -99 THE LIGHTHOUSES ... . 101 Gloucester THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS H. W. Longfellow 102 GLOUCESTER MOORS . . . W. V. Moody . 106 Cape Ann FROM THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN . /. G. Whittier no XIV TABLE OF CONTENTS Ipswich PAGE IPSWICH TOWN .... J.A.Morgan . 114 HEARTBREAK HILL . . . Celia Thaxter . 117 A ndover FROM THE SCHOOL BOY . . 0. W. Holmes . 119 Newbury THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY . . . . J.G. Whittier . 122 THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL J.G. Whittier . 126 Newburyport THE PREACHER . . . .J.G. Whittier 130 Waverly DEAVER BROOK . . . . J. R. Lowell . .132 Lexington A SONG FOR LEXINGTON . . R. K. Weeks . 134 Concord BROOK FARM . N. Hawthorne 136 MUSKET AQUID R. W. Emerson . 137 Two RIVERS " 140 THOREAU'S FLUTE . L. M. Alcoit 141 WALDEN LAKE . W. E. Channing . 143 THE SNOW-STORM . R. W. Emerson . 144 TABLE OF CONTENTS XV Natick PAGE ELIOT'S OAK . . . . H. W. Longfellow 146 Sudbury FROM TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN H. W. Longfellow 146 ANNE L. W. Reese . . 148 Wachusett Mountain MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT /. G. Whittier . 149 To WACHUSETT . . . . H. D. Thoreau . 152 Springfield THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD . H. W. Longfellow 153 Cummington LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY . . . . . W.C. Bryant . 156 Piilsfield THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS H. W. Longfellow 157 Tyringham A RHYME OF TYRINGHAM . . R. W. Gilder . 160 EVENING IN TYRINGHAM VALLEY . 162 MOONRISE OVER TYRINGHAM . Edith Wharton . 163 Great Barrington GREEN RIVER . . . .W.C. Bryant . 166 MONUMENT MOUNTAIN . . . 169 XVI TABLE OF CONTENTS MAINE Cape Arundel PAGE THE OLD LOBSTERMAN . . J.T. Trowbridge . 171 Saco River FROM MOGG MEGONE . . J. G. Whittier . 174 FROM MARY GARVIN . . 175 Sebago Lake FUNERAL-TREE OF THE SOKOKIS J. G. Whittier . 176 Songo River SONGO RIVER .... H.W.Longfellow 179 Casco Bay FROM THE RANGER . . . J. G. Whittier . 181 Portland MY LOST YOUTH . . . H. W. Longfellow 182 Harpswett THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPS- WELL J. G. Whittier . 186 Penobscot Bay FROM MOGG MEGONE . . J.G. Whittier . 190 Deer Isle A MAINE TRAIL . . . G.H. McGifert . 192 TABLE OF CONTENTS XV11 Mount Katahdin PAGE To A PINE TREE . . . J . R. Lowell. . 194 Norridgewock FROM MOGG MEGONE . . J. G. Whittier . 196 NEW HAMPSHIRE The Merrimac River THE MERRIMAC . . . . J. G. Whittier . 197 Portsmouth AMY WENTWORTH . . . J. G. Whittier . 201 LADY WENTWORTH . . . H. W. Longfellow 204 Isles of Shoals PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE . /. R. Lowell . . 211 THE SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS . . . Celia Thaxter . 218 Piscalaqua River PISCATAQUA RIVER . . . T. B. Aldrich . 220 Bearcamp River SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP . J. G. Whittier . 221 The While Mountains FROM THE BRIDAL OF PENNA- COOK J.G. Whittier . 224 CHOCORUA Lucy Larcom . 225 CLOUDS ON WHITEFACE " 226 xvill TABLE OF CONTENTS Pemigewasset River PAGE MY MOUNTAIN .... Lucy Larcom . 227 Hanover FROM COMRADES . R. Hovey . . 230 Mt. Monadnock MONADNOCK FROM AFAR . R. W. Emerson . 234 FROM MONADNOCK ... . 235 VERMONT The Green Mountains THE GREEN MOUNTAINS . . J. R. Lowell . . 236 Sunderland THE OLDENBURYS OF SUNDER- LAND . . . . . S. N. Cleghorn . 237 Lake Champlain FROM TICONDEROGA . . . Percy MacKaye . 238 RHODE ISLAND A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL W. C. Bryant . 240 Newport THE SKELETON IN ARMOR . H. W. Longfellow 244 A NEWPORT ROMANCE . . Bret Harte . . 251 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE . Nora Perry . -254 THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT H. W. Longfellow 257 TABLE OF CONTENTS XIX Block Island PAGE THE ISLAND . . . . R. H. Dana . . 260 CONNECTICUT Norwich THE INLAND CITY . . .E.G. Stedman . 261 Killingworth' THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH H. W. Longfellow 264 New Haven THE PHANTOM SHIP . . H. W. Longfellow 274 NEW YORK, NEW JERSEY, PENNSYL- VANIA AND DELAWARE NEW YORK New York City HENDRIK'S PROPHECY . . Anon. . . . 279 PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL . . . E. C. Stedman . 282 WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN G. W. Carryl . 289 MANNAHATTA .... Walt Whitman . 292 FROM A WINTER THOUGHT OF DARTMOUTH IN MANHATTAN R. Hovey . . 293 BROOKLYN BRIDGE . . . C. G. D. Roberts . 295 XX TABLE OF CONTENTS New York City Continued PAGE BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN . R. Le Gallienne . 296 PAN IN WALL STREET . . E. C. Stedman . 297 WASHINGTON SQUARE . . R. W. Gilder . 300 BROADWAY W. A. Butler . 301 BROADWAY Edith Thomas . 303 ON A SUBWAY EXPRESS . . C. Firkins . . 305 ON THE ELEVATED RAILROAD AT IIOTH STREET . . . C. G. D. Roberts . 307 POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM . /. H. Boner . . 307 Bay Ridge AT BAY RIDGE . . . . T. B. Aldrich . 310 Hudson River HUDSON RIVER . . . . T. W. Parsons . 310 THE HUDSON . . . . O. W. Holmes . 314 FROM THE CULPRIT FAY . . J. R. Drake . . 315 THE HUDSON . . . . G. S. Hellman . 317 CATSKILL MOUNTAINS . . Washington Irving 317 CATSKILL Bayard Taylor . 318 CATTERSKILL FALLS . . . W. C. Bryant . 319 Tarrytown IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRY- TOWN . . . . . H. W. Longfellow 324 Saratoga Lake LAKE SARATOGA . . . . J.G. Saxe . .324 Lake George LAKE GEORGE . . . . A. C. Coxe . .326 TABLE OF CONTENTS XXI Mohawk River PAGE FALLS OF THE MOHAWK . . Thomas Moore . 328 Adirondacks FROM THE ADIRONDACS . . R. W. Emerson . 330 Geneste River MY OWN DARK GENESEE . W. H. C. Hosmer 332 Niagara NIAGARA N. Hawthorne . 334 THE CATARACT ISLE . . . C. P. Cranch . 335 NIAGARA Florence Wilkinson 337 AT NIAGARA . . . . R. W. Gilder . 341 Lake Erie PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE J. G. Percival . 342 NEW JERSEY Passaic River THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC . Washington Irving 344 Elizabeth FUIT ILIUM E.G. Stedman . 346 Monmouth THE SPUR OF MONMOUTH, . Henry Morford . 350 . DELAWARE FROM PEACH-BLOSSOMS . . Bayard Taylor . 354 xxil TABLE OF CONTENTS PENNSYLVANIA PAGE FROM THE PENNSYLVANIA PIL- GRIM J. G. Whittier . 355 Philadelphia FROM EVANGELINE . . . H. W. Longfellow 361 THE SOUTH O MAGNET-SOUTH . . . Walt Whitman . 365 To THE MOCKING-BIRD . . R. H. Wilde . . 367 MARYLAND Frederick City BARBARA FRIETCHTE . . . J. G. Whittier . 368 DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA THE WHITE HOUSE BY MOON- LIGHT Walt Whitman . 371 VIRGINIA POCAHONTAS . . . . W. M. Thackeray 372 ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC E. L. Beers . .373 Mount Vernon WASHINGTON .... Lord Byron . .375 MOUNT VERNON .... David Humphreys 376 TABLE OF CONTENTS XX111 Dismal Swamp PAGE THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP Thomas Moore . 379 Charlestown BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE . J. G. Whittier . 381 Hampton Roads THE CUMBERLAND . . . H. W. Longfellow 383 GEORGIA Glynn V THE MARSHES OF GLYNN . Sidney Lanier . 385 Chattahoochee River SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE Sidney Lanier . 391 FLORIDA DOWN THE BAYOU . . . M. A. Townsend . 393 AT SET OF SUN .... . 394 Tampa TAMPA ROBINS .... Sidney Lanier . 394 LOUISIANA IN LOUISIANA . . . . A. B. Paine . . 395 XXIV TABLE OF CONTENTS Bayou Plaquemine PAGE FROM EVANGELINE . . . H. W. Longfellow 396 Atchafalaya Lakes FROM EVANGELINE . . . H. W. Longfellow 399 TEXAS The Plains FROM KIT CARSON'S RIDE . Joaqnin Miller . 403 FROM TENNESSEE TO THE NORTHWEST TENNESSEE OCTOBER IN TENNESSEE . . Walter M alone . 413 KENTUCKY MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME . S. C. Foster . . 415 INDIANA INDIANA Anon. . . .416 THE WABASH . . . . Maurice Thompson 418 THE LITTLE TOWN o' TAILHOLT /. W. Riley . . 419 ILLINOIS LINES WRITTEN IN ILLINOIS . M. F. Ossoli . . 420 TABLE OF CONTENTS XXV Chicago PAGE CHICAGO Wallace Rice . 422 Springfield FROM LINCOLN'S GRAVE . . Maurice Thompson 424 Rivers and Prairies THE PAINTED CUP . . . W. C. Bryant . 427 "MARK" Ernest McGaffey . 429 ON THE BLUFF .... John Hay . . 430 THE PRAIRIE .... . 431 WISCONSIN Racine FROM THE RACINE COLLEGE MEMORIAL ODE . . . Wallace Rice . 433 Madison THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON H. W. Longfellow 434 MICHIGAN IN MICHIGAN .... Ivan Swift . .435 LAKE SUPERIOR FROM HIAWATHA . . . H. W. Longfellow 436 FROM HIAWATHA ... 438 HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE . . " 440 XXVI TABLE OF CONTENTS MINNESOTA PAGE THE Two STREAMS . . . O. W. Holmes . 447 The Falls of Minnehaha FROM HIAWATHA . . . H. W. Longfellow 448 THE WEST FROM EVANGELINE . . . H. W. Longfellow 453 FROM PASSAGE TO INDIA . . Walt Whitmin . 455 PIONEERS Hamlin Garland . 456 FROM THE RIVER AND I . . /. G. Neihardt . 456 THE PRAIRIES . . . . W. C. Bryant . 458 THE HUNTER or THE PRAIRIES . 463 CROSSING THE PLAINS . . Joaquin Miller . 465 SOUTH DAKOTA DAKOTA Joel Benton . . 466 FROM HIAWATHA . . . H. W. Longfellow 466 ON A SOUTH DAKOTA FARM IN MARCH Charles E. Russell 472 THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS MOONRISE IN THE ROCKIES . Ella Higginson . 476 WASHINGTON MOUNT RAINIER . . . Herbert Bashford . 476 MOUNT RAINIER . . . Francis Brooks . 477 OREGON THE GRAND RONDE VALLEY . Ella Higginson . 478 TABLE OF CONTENTS XXV11 CALIFORNIA PAGE CALIFORNIA Joaquin Miller . 478 CALIFORNIA WINTER . . . E. R. Sill . . 481 THE MARIPOSA LILY . . Ina Coolbrith . 483 Rio Sacramento Rio SACRAMENTO . . . Bayard Taylor . 484 Near San Francisco FROM THE SILVERADO SQUAT- TERS R. L. Stevenson . 485 Mount Tamalpais As I CAME DOWN MT. TAMAL- PAIS Clarence Urmy . 486 San Francisco FROM THE HERMITAGE . . E. R. Sill . .487 ALCATRAZ Ina Coolbrith . 488 PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO 1800 Bret Harte . . 490 THE ANGELUS " " . . 498 San Joaquin THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN .... Bret Harte . . 499 Calaveras ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES . Bret Harte . . 503 XXV111 TABLE OF CONTENTS Monterey PAGE THE PINE FOREST OF MON- TEREY ..... Bayard Taylor . 505 Santa Barbara SANTA BARBARA . . . . F. F. Browne . 510 By the Pacific Ocean BY THE PACIFIC OCEAN . . Joaquin Miller . 510 On Leaving California ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA . . Bayard Taylor . 511 ARIZONA YUMA C. H. Phelps . 513 THE PLAINS OF ARIZONA . . Joaquin Miller . 514 ARIZONA Thomas W.Stevens 516 NOON ON THE PLAIN . . Hamlin Garland . 519 THE GIFT OF WATER . . " " .519 VAQUERO Joaquin Miller . 520 THE SANTA FE TRAIL THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL . Richard Burton . 521 OKLAHOMA THE LAST RESERVATION . . Walter Learned . 522 PANAMA A SONG OF PANAMA . . . A. D. Runyon . 524 THE EXPLORERS From The Voyage to Vinland ^> ^ T70UR weeks they sailed, a speck in sky-shut seas, Life, where was never life that knew itself, But tumbled, lubber-like, in blowing whales; Thought, where the like had never been before Since Thought primeval brooded the abyss; Alone as men were never in the world. They saw the icy foundlings of the sea, White cliffs of silence, beautiful by day, Or looming, sudden-perilous, at night In monstrous hush; or sometimes in the dark The waves broke ominous with paly gleams Crushed by the prow in sparkles of cold fire. Then came green stripes of sea that promised land But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day Low in the West were wooded shores like cloud. They shouted as men shout with sudden hope; But Biorn was silent, such strange loss there is Between the dream's fulfillment and the dream, Such sad abatement in the goal attained. Then Gudrida, that was a prophetess, Rapt with strange influence from Atlantis, sang: Her words: the vision was the dreaming shore's. 3 THE EXPLORERS Looms there the New Land: Locked in the shadow Long the gods shut it, Niggards of newness They, the o'er-old. Little it looks there, Slim as a cloud-streak; It shall fold peoples Even as a shepherd Foldeth his flock. Silent it sleeps now; Great ships shall seek it, Swarming as salmon; Noise of its numbers Two seas shall hear. Man from the Northland, Man from the Southland, Haste empty-handed; No more than manhood Bring they, and hands. Dark hair and fair hair, Red blood and blue blood, There shall be mingled; Force of the ferment Makes the New Man. COLUMBUS 5 Pick of all kindreds, King's blood shall theirs be, Shoots of the eldest Stock upon Midgard, Sons of the poor. Them waits the New Land; They shall subdue it, Leaving their sons' sons Space for the body, Space for the soul. * * # # James Russell Lowell. Columbus l <^y <^> <^> <^> <^> <^> "^^ (From Psalm of the West) COLUMBUS stands in the night alone, and, ^-" passing grave, Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn. Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave, Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn: 1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier ; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lamer; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 6 THE EXPLORERS "I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night, From its big circling ever absently Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee. Maria! Star? No star: a Light, a Light! Wouldst leap ashore, Heart ? Yonder burns a Light. Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me. I prithee stand and gaze about the sea: What seest ? Admiral, like as land a Light ! Well ! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try: What seest ? Admiral, naught but sea and sky ! Well ! but 7 saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun ! Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done ! Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand God's, East mine, West: good friends, behold my Land !" Sidney Lanier. Prayer of Columbus ^x <^y <^ *^ <^y ^ CIVE fearless knights of the first renown In Elizabeth's great array, From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down American sailors they; Who went to the West, For they all knew best Where the silver was gray As a moonlit night, And the gold as bright As a midsummer day A-sailing away Through the salt sea spray, The first American sailors. THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS II Sir Humphrey Gilbert, he was ONE And Devon was heaven to him, He loved the sea as he loved the sun And hated the Don as the Devil's limb Hated him up to the brim! In Holland the Spanish hide he tanned, He roughed and routed their braggart band, And God was with him on sea and land; Newfoundland knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host v And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From near the Equator away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas. Sir Francis Drake, and he was TWO And Devon was heaven to him, He loved in his heart the waters blue And hated the Don as the Devil's limb Hated him up to the brim ! At Cadiz he singed the King's black beard, The Armada met him and fled afeared, Great Philip's golden fleece he sheared; Oregon knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, 12 THE EXPLORERS From California away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas. Sir Walter Raleigh, he was THREE And Devon was heaven to him, There was nothing he loved so well as the sea He hated the Don as the Devil's limb He hated him up to the brim ! He settled full many a Spanish score, Full many's the banner his bullets tore On English, American, Spanish shore; Guiana knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From Guiana northward to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas. Sir Richard Grenville, he was FOUR, And Devon was heaven to him, He loved the waves and their windy roar And hated the Don as the Devil's limb Hated him up to the brim ! He whipped him on land and mocked him at sea, He laughed to scorn his sovereignty, And with the Revenge beat his fifty- three; Virginia knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS 13 And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From the Old Dominion away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas. And Sir John Hawkins, he was FIVE And Devon was heaven to him, He worshiped the water while he was alive And hated the Don as the Devil's limb Hated him up to the brim ! He chased him over the Spanish Main, He scoffed and defied the navies of Spain His cities he ravished again and again; The Gulf it knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host And now there is nothing but .English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From the Rio Grande away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas. Five fearless knights have filled gallant graves This many and many a day, Some under the willows, some under the waves American sailors they; And still in the West Is their valor blest, 14 THE EXPLORERS Where a banner bright With the ocean's blue And the red wrack's hue And, the spoondrift's white Is smiling to-day Through the salt sea spray Upon American sailors. Wallace Rice. The Fountain of Youth ^> ^ <^> < A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON A STORY of Ponce de Leon, ~*: A voyager, withered and old, Who came to the sunny Antilles, In quest of a country of gold. He was wafted past islands of spices, As bright as the Emerald seas, Where all the forests seem singing, So thick were the birds on the trees; The sea was as clear as the azure, And so deep and so pure was the sky That the jasper-walled city seemed shining Just out of the reach of the eye. By day his light canvas he shifted, And rounded strange harbors and bars; By night, on the full tides he drifted, 'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars. THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH 15 Near the glimmering gates of the sunset, In the twilight empurpled and dim, The sailors uplifted their voices, And sang to the Virgin a hymn. "Thank the Lord !" said De Leon, the sailor, At the close of the rounded refrain; "Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses The ocean-swept banner of Spain ! The shadowy world is behind us, The shining Cipango, before; Each morning the sun rises brighter On ocean, and island, and shore. And still shall our spirits grow lighter, As prospects more glowing enfold; Then on, merry men ! to Cipango, To the west, and the regions of gold ! " There came to De Leon, the sailor, Some Indian sages, who told Of a region so bright that the waters Were sprinkled with islands of gold. And they added: "The leafy Bimini, A fair land of grottoes and bowers, Is there; and a wonderful fountain Upsprings from its gardens of flowers. That fountain gives life to the dying, And youth to the aged restores; 1 6 THE EXPLORERS They flourish in beauty eternal, Who set but their foot on its shores ! " Then answered De Leon, the sailor: "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old; I would rather discover that fountain, Than a country of diamonds and gold." m Away sailed De Leon, the sailor; Away with a wonderful glee, Till the birds were more rare in the azure, The dolphins more rare in the sea. Away from the shady Bahamas, Over waters no sailor had seen, Till again on his wondering vision, Rose clustering islands of green. Still onward he sped till the breezes Were laden with odors, and lo ! A country embedded with flowers, A country with rivers aglow ! More bright than the sunny Antilles, More fair than the shady Azores. "Thank the Lord !" said De Leon, the sailor, As feasted his eye on the shores, "We have come to a region, my brothers, More lovely than earth, of a truth; And here is the life-giving fountain, Ths beautiful fountain of youth." THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH 17 IV Then landed De Leon, the sailor, Unfurled his old banner, and sung; But he felt very wrinkled and withered, All around was so fresh and so young. The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming, Their blossoms e'en margined the seas; O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers Hung deep from the branches of trees. "Praise the Lord !" sung De Leon, the sailor; His heart was with rapture aflame; And he said: "Be the name of this region By Florida given to fame. 'Tis a fair, a delectable country, More lovely than earth, of a truth; I soon shall partake of the fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth ! " But wandered De Leon, the sailor, In search of that fountain in vain; No waters were there to restore him To freshness and beauty again. And his anchor he lifted, and murmured, As the tears gathered fast in his eye, "I must leave this fair land of the flowers, Go back o'er the ocean, and die." 1 8 THE EXPLORERS Then back by the dreary Tortugas, And back by the shady Azores, He was borne on the storm-smitten waters To the calm of his own native shores. And that he grew older and older, His footsteps enfeebled gave proof, Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth. VI One day the old sailor lay dying On the shores of a tropical isle, And his heart was enkindled with rapture, And his face lighted up with a smile. He thought of the sunny Antilles, He thought of the shady Azores, He thought of the dreamy Bahamas, He thought of fair Florida's shores. And, when in his mind he passed over His wonderful travels of old, He thought of the heavenly country, Of the city of jasper and gold. "Thank the Lord !" said De Leon, the sailor, "Thank the Lord for the light of the truth, I now am approaching the fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth." TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE 19 VII The cabin was silent: at twilight They heard the birds singing a psalm, And the winds of the ocean low sighing Through groves of the orange and palm. The sailor still lay on his pallet, 'Neath the low-hanging vines of the roof; His soul had gone forth to discover . The beautiful Fountain of Youth. Hezekiah Butterworth. To the Virginian Voyage <^y <^> ^ \7"OU brave heroic minds, * Worthy your country's name, That honor still pursue, Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home, with shame. Go and subdue. Britons, you stay too long, Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretched sail, With vows as strong As the winds that blow you. 20 THE EXPLORERS Your course securely steer, West and by south forth keep, Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals, When Eolus scowls, You need not fear, So absolute the deep. And cheerfully at sea, Success you still entice, To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia, Earth's only paradise. Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitful'st soil, Without your toil, Three harvests more, All greater than your wish. And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine, And useful sassafras. TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE . 21 To whose, the golden age Still nature's laws doth give, No other cares attend, But them to defend From winter's rage, That long there doth not live. When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land, Above the seas that flows, The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand; In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then, Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven; And in regions far Such heroes bring ye forth, As those from whom we came, And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north; 22 THE EXPLORERS And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere, Apollo's sacred tree, You it may see, A poet's brows To crown, that may sing there. Thy voyages attend, Industrious Hackluit, Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after-times thy wit. Michael Dray ton. Henry Hudson's Quest <^> <^> <^* *o T from the harbor of Amsterdam The Half Moon turned her prow to sea; The coast of Norway dropped behind, Yet Northward still kept she Through the drifting fog and the driving snow, Where* never before man dared to go : "O Pilot, shall we find the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea ? " "A waste of ice before us lies we must turn back," said he. HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST 23 Westward they steered their tiny bark, Westward through weary weeks they sped, Till the cold gray strand of a stranger-land Loomed through the mist ahead. League after league they hugged the coast, And their Captain never left his post; "0 Pilot, see you yet the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea ? " "I see but the rocks and the barren shore; no strait is there," quoth he. They sailed to the North they sailed to the South And at last they rounded an arm of sand Which held the sea from a harbor's mouth The loveliest in the land. They kept their course across the bay, And the shore before them fell away: "0 Pilot, see you not the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea ? " "Hold the rudder true ! Praise Christ Jesu ! the strait is here," said he. Onward they glide with wind and tide, Past marshes gray and crags sun-kist; They skirt the sills of green-clad hills, And meadows white with mist But alas ! the hope and the brave, brave dream ! For rock and shallow bar the stream: 24 THE EXPLORERS "O Pilot, can this be the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea ?" "Nay, Captain, nay; 'tis not this way; turn back we must," said he. Full sad was Hudson's heart as he turned The Half Moon's prow to the South once more; He saw no beauty in crag or hill, No beauty in curving shore; For they shut him away from that fabled main He sought his whole life long, in vain: "O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "God's crpyt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time," quoth he. Burton Egbert Stevenson. Henry Hudson's Last Voyage 1 E sail in sight upon the lonely sea, And only one, God knows ! For never ship But mine broke through the icy gates that guard These waters greater grown than any since We left the shore of England. We were first, My men, to battle in between the bergs And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; 1 From The White Bees and Other Poems ; copyright, 1909, by Charles Scribner's Sons. HENRY HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 2$ I name it ! and that flying sail is mine ! And there, hull-down below that flying sail, The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine ! My ship Discoverie ! The sullen dogs Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched Their food and bit the hand that nurtured them, Have stolen her ! You ingrate Henry Greene, I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, I paid your debts, and kept you in my house, And brought you here to make a man of you. You, Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, Toothless and tremulous, how many times Have I employed you as a mate of mine To give you bread ! And you, Abacuck Prickett, You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, You knew the plot and silently agreed, Salving your conscience with a pious lie. Yes, all of you, hounds, rebels, thieves ! Bring back My ship ! Too late I rave they cannot hear My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh Would be their answer. For their minds have caught The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve, That looks like courage but is only fear. 26 THE EXPLORERS They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown, Or blunder home to England and be hanged. Their skeletons will rattle in the chains Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs, While passing sailors point to them and say, "Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men, Who left their captain in the frozen North ! " O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained, Plans of the wise and actions of the brave Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards ? Look there she goes her topsails in the sun Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop Clean out of sight ! So let the traitors go Clean out of mind ! We'll think of braver things ! Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west. You, Philip Staffe, the only one who chose Freely to share with us the shallop's fate, Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship, Too good an English sailor to desert These crippled comrades, try to make them rest More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, My little shipmate, come and lean your head Upon your father's knee. Do you recall That April day in Ethelburga's church, Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled To take the sacrament, with all our company, Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks HENRY HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 2/ On our first voyage ? Then it was I vowed My sailor-soul and yours to search the sea Until we found the water-path that leads From Europe into Asia. I believe That God has poured the ocean round His world, Not to divide, but to unite the lands; And all the English seamen who have dared In little ships to plow uncharted waves Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, Raleigh and Gilbert all the other names Are written in the chivalry of God As men who served His purpose. I would claim A place among that knighthood of the sea: And I have earned it, though my quest should fail! For mark me well. The honor of our life Derives from this: to have a certain aim Before us always, which our will must seek Amid the peril of uncertain ways. Then, though we miss the goal, our search is crowned With courage, and along the path we find A rich reward of unexpected things. Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares ! I know not why, but something in my heart Has always whispered, "Westward seek your aim." 28 THE EXPLORERS Four times they sent me east, but still my prow Turned west again, and felt among the floes Of ruttling ice along the Groneland coast, And down the rugged shores of Newfoundland, And past the rocky capes and sandy bays Where Gosnold sailed, like one who feels his way With outstretched hand across a darkened room, I groped among the inlets and the isles, To find the passage to the Isles of Spice. I have not found it yet but I have found Things worth the finding ! Son, have you forgot Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon The flag of Holland floating at her peak Across a sandy bar, and sounded in Among the channels to a goodly bay Where all the navies of the world could ride ? A fertile island that the redmen called Manhattan crowned the bay; and all the land Around was bountiful and friendly fair. But never land was fair enough to hold The seaman from the calling of the waves: And so we bore to westward, past the isle, Along a mighty inlet, where the tide Was troubled by a downward-rolling flood HENRY HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 29 That seemed to come from far away perhaps From some mysterious gulf of Tartary ? We followed that wide waterway, by palisades Of naked rock where giants might have held Their fortress; and by rolling hills adorned With forests rich in timber for great ships; Through narrows where the mountains shut us in With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream; And then through open reaches where the banks Sloped to the water gently, with their fields Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun. Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, Until we came to shoals; and sent a boat Upstream, to find what I already knew We sailed upon a river, not a strait ! But what a river ! God has never poured A stream more royal through a land more rich. Even now I see it flowing in my dream, While coming ages people it with men Of manhood equal to the river's pride. I see the wigwams of the redmen changed To ample houses, and the tiny plots Of maize and green tobacco broadened out To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale The many-colored mantle of their crops. I see the terraced vineyards on the slopes Where now the wild grape loops the tangled wood; 3O THE EXPLORERS And cattle feeding where the red deer roam; And wild bees gathered into busy hives To store the silver comb with golden sweet; And all the promised land begins to flow With milk and honey. Stately manors rise Along the banks, and castles top the hills, And little villages grow populous with trade, Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, The thread that links a hundred towns and towers! All this I see, and when it comes to pass I prophesy a city on the isle They call Manhattan, equal in her state To all the older capitals of earth, The gateway city of a golden world, A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, And swarming with a busy host of men, While to her open door, across the bay, The ships of all the nations flock like doves! My name will be remembered there, for men Will say, "This river and this bay were found By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek The Northwest Passage into farthest Inde." Yes, yes, I sought it then, I seek it still, My great adventure, pole-star of my heart! For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done: Somewhere beyond these floating fields of ice, Somewhere along this westward widening bay, Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night, HENRY HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 3! The channel opens to the Orient, I know it, and some day a little ship Will enter there and battle safely through ! And why not ours to-morrow who can tell ? We hold by hope as long as life endures: These are the longest days of all the year, The world is round, and God is everywhere, And while our shallop floats we still can steer. So point her up, John King, nor'west by north ! We'll keep the honor of a certain aim Amid the peril of uncertain ways, And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. Henry van Dyke. NEW ENGLAND The first world-sound that fell upon my ear Was that of the great winds along the coast Crushing the deep-sea beryl on the rocks The distant breakers' sullen cannonade. Against the spires and gables of the town The white fog drifted, catching here and there At over-leaning cornice or peaked roof, And hung weird gonfalons. The garden walks Were choked with leaves, and on their ragged biers Lay dead the sweets of summer damask rose, Clove-pink, old-fashioned, loved New England flowers. Only keen salt sea-odors filled the air. Sea-sounds, sea-odors, these were all my world. T. B. Aldrich. Again among the hills! The shaggy hills! R. Hovey. New England's Annoyances <^> <^y *^> The first recorded poem written in America TVTEW ENGLAND'S annoyances, you that * ^ would know them, Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth show them. The Place where we live is a wilderness Wood, Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good: Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below Being commonly covered with Ice and with Snow; And when the North-west Wind with violence blows, Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose: But if any's so hardy and will it withstand, He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand. But when the Spring opens, we then take the Hoe, And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow; Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown, The Worms destroy much before it is grown; And when it is growing, some spoil there is made By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade; 35 36 NEW ENGLAND And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear, It is often destroyed by Racoon and by Deer. And now do our Garments begin to grow thin, And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin; If we can get a Garment to cover without Our other In- Garments are Clout upon Clout: Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn, They need to be clouted soon after they're worn; But clouting our Garments they hinder us nothing : Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing. If fresh Meat be wanting, to fill up our Dish, We have Carrots and Turnips as much as we wish; And is there a mind for a delicate Dish, We repair to the Clam-banks, and there we catch Fish. For Pottage and Puddings, and Custards and Pies, Our Pumpkins and Parsnips are common supplies; We have Pumpkins at morning, and Pumpkins at noon; If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone. If Barley be wanting to make into Malt, We must be contented, and think it no fault; THE PILGRIM FATHERS 37 For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and Walnut-Tree Chips. Now while some are going let others be coming, For while Liquor's boiling it must have a scum- ming; But I will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather, By seeking their Fellows, are flocking together. But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring, Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting; But bring both a quiet and contented Mind, And all needful Blessings you surely will find. The Pilgrim Fathers "IT^TELL worthy to be magnified are they * Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend; 38 NEW ENGLAND Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for Sinners died. ii From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred, In worship neither raised nor limited Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant shore, For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led Back to the Land whose Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace, Fathers ! your Virtues, such the power of grace, Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move. William Wordsworth. The Pilgrim Fathers <^x <^* <^* <^> <^ " I "HE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they ? -* The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; THE PILGRIM FATHERS 39 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone As an angel's wing through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile, sainted name ! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head, But the Pilgrim ! where is he ? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 4O NEW ENGLAND The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot at last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. John Pierpont. The Yankee Volunteers ^x <^ <^* -x> <^> <^> ^> 'T'HE South-land boasts its teeming cane, -* The prairied West its heavy grain, And sunset's radiant gates unfold On rising marts and sands of gold ! Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State Is scant of soil, of limits strait; 4 NEW ENGLAND Her yellow sands are sands alone, Her only mines are ice and stone ! From autumn frost to April rain, Too long her winter woods complain; From budding flower to falling leaf, Her summer time is all too brief. Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, And wintry hills, the school-house stands, And what her rugged soil denies, The harvest of the mind supplies. The riches of the Commonwealth Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; And more to her than gold or grain, The cunning hand and cultured brain. For well she keeps her ancient stock, The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; And still maintains, with milder laws, And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! Nor heeds the skeptic's puny hands, While near her school the church-spire stands; Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, While near her church-spire stands the school. John Greenleaf Whittier. PLYMOUTH 45 The Mayflower <^ -o> <^ ^> ^x ^ (Plymouth) ~p\OWN in the bleak December bay *^ The ghostly vessel stands away; Her spars and halyards white with ice, Under the dark December skies. A hundred souls, in company, Have left the vessel pensively, Have touched the frosty desert there, And touched it with the knees of prayer. And now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. Neither the desert nor the sea Imposes rites: their prayers are free; Danger and toil the wild imposes, And thorns must grow before the roses. And who are these ? and what distress The savage-acred wilderness On mother, maid, and child, may bring, Beseems them for a fearful thing; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. 46 NEW ENGLAND But Carver leads (in heart and health A hero of the commonwealth) The axes that the camp requires, To build the lodge and heap the fires. And Standish from his warlike store Arrays his men along the shore, Distributes weapons resonant, And dons his harness militant; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower; And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest She sees a Book, in vellum drest, She drops a tear and kisses the tome, Thinking of England and of home: Might they the Pilgrims, there and then Ordained to do the work of men Have seen, in visions -of the air, While pillowed on the breast of prayer (When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower), The Canaan of their wilderness A boundless empire of success; And seen the years of future nights Jeweled with myriad household lights; PLYMOUTH 47 And seen the honey fill the hive; And seen a thousand ships arrive; And heard the wheels of travel go; It would have cheered a thought of woe, When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth. From The Courtship of Miles Standish ^> (Plynyuth) IV /TONTH after month 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, 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. 48 NEW ENGLAND Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the land with his forces, Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 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. 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. There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard : Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, NANTUCKET 49 Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden's allotment In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 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. 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Nantucket <^> <^, *^> <^, ^> <^> "P\EAR old Nantucket's isle of sand, An ancient exile from the Land, Free from the devastating hand Of pomp and pillage, 50 NEW ENGLAND I find it year by year with all Its white-winged fleet of cat-boats small Guarding what Fancy loves to call The violet village. The yellow cliffs, the houses white, The wind-mill with its wheel in sight, The church spire and the beacons bright, All bunched together; How picturesque they are ! How fair ! And, O how fragrant is the air, With pink wild-roses everywhere And purple heather ! Half foreign seems the little town, The narrow streets, the tumble-down And rotting wharves whose past renown Is linked with whalers, The roofs with Look-outs whence they saw In bygone days the big ships draw Homeward with oil, and watched with awe The sea- worn sailors: Half foreign, but the better half Is like the flag that from the staff Flings out its welcome, starry laugh, Native completely; NANTUCKET 5 1 The shops, the schools, the zigzag lines Of shingled dwellings hung with vines, And gardens wrought in quaint designs And smelling sweetly. Here one may wander forth and meet Skippers of eighty years whose feet Find youth yet in the paven street; And if one hunger For yarns of wrecks and water lore, Pass the tobacco round once more, And hear what happened long before, When he was younger. Enchanting tales of wind and wave, Witty, pathetic, gay and grave, One listens in the merman's cave Enraptured, breathless, While from the gray, bewhiskered lips Come stories of the sea and ships; The careful skipper never skips The legends deathless. Then out again, and let us go Where fresh and cool the breezes blow Over the dunes of Pocomo, Where bird and berry 52 NEW ENGLAND Conspire to lure us on until, Over the gently sloping hill, We see Wauwinet, white and still And peaceful very. Here is the ending of the quest; Here, on this Island of the Blest, Is found at last the Port of Rest, Remote, romantic: A land-flower broken from the stem, And few indeed there be of them Fitted so perfectly to gem The blue Atlantic. Dreamy, delicious, drowsy, dull, A poppy-island beautiful; And there are poppies here to cull Until the plunder Provokes the soul to sleep and dream Amid the glamour and the gleam, And makes the world about us seem A world of wonder ! Frank Dempster Sherman. With a Nantucket Shell <^> -^> (Nantucket) T SEND thee a shell from the ocean beach; * But listen thou well, for my shell hath speech. Hold to thine ear, And plain thou'lt hear NANTUCKET 53 Tales of ships That were lost in the rips, Or that sunk on shoals Where the bell-buoy tolls, And ever and ever its iron tongue rolls In a ceaseless lament for the poor lost souls. And a song of the sea Has my shell for thee; The melody in it Was hummed at Wauwinet, And caught at Coatue By the gull that flew Outside to the ship with its perishing crew. But the white wings wave Where none may save, And there's never a stone to mark a grave. See, its sad heart bleeds For the sailors' needs; But it bleeds again For more mortal pain, More sorrow and woe, Than is theirs who go With shuddering eyes and whitening lips Down in the sea on their shattered ships. Thou fearest the sea ? And a tryant is he, A tryant as cruel as tyrant may be; 54 NEW ENGLAND But though winds fierce blow, And the rocks lie low, And the coast be lee, This I say to thee: Of Christian souls more have been wrecked on shore Than ever were lost at sea ! Charles Henry Webb. The Path to Sankoty <^> <^> *Q> ^, <^ (Nantucket Island) TT winds along the headlands Above the open sea The lonely moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty. The crooning sea spreads sailless And gray to the world's rim, Where hang the reeking fog-banks Primordial and dim. There fret the ceaseless currents, And the eternal tide Chafes over hidden shallows Where the white horses ride. The wistful, fragrant moorlands Whose smile bids panic cease, NANTUCKET ISLAND 55 Lie treeless and cloud-shadowed In grave and lonely peace. Across their flowering bosom, From the far end of day Blow clean the great soft moor-winds All sweet with rose and bay. A world as large and simple As first emerged for man, Cleared for the human drama, Before the play began. O well the soul must treasure The calm that sets it free The vast and tender skyline, The sea-turn's wizardry, Solace of swaying grasses, The friendship of sweet-fern And in the world's confusion Remembering, must yearn To tread the moorland footpath That leads to Sankoty, Hearing the field-larks shrilling Beside the sailless sea. Bliss Carman. 56 NEW ENGLAND First Landing of the Pilgrims <^ <^> <^ (Cape Cod) 1P\AYS pass, winds veer, and favoring skies *-' Change like the face of fortune; storms arise; Safely, but not within her port desired, The good ship lies. Where the long sandy Cape Bends and embraces round, As with a lover's arm, the sheltered sea, A haven she hath found From adverse gales and boisterous billows free. Now strike your sails, Ye toilworn mariners, and take your rest Long as the fierce northwest In that wild fit prevails, Tossing the waves uptorn with frantic sway. Keep ye within the bay, Contented to delay Your course till the elemental madness cease, And heaven and ocean are again at peace. How gladly there, Sick of the uncomfortable ocean, The impatient passengers approach the shore; Escaping from the sense of endless motion, To feel firm earth beneath their feet once more, CAPE COD 57 To breathe again the air With taint of bilge and cordage undefiled, And drink of living springs, if there they may, And with fresh fruits and wholesome food repair Their spirits, weary of the watery way. And oh ! how beautiful The things of earth appear To eyes that far and near For many a week have seen Only the circle of the restless sea! With what a fresh delight They gaze again on fields and forests green, Hovel, or whatsoe'er May bear the trace of man's industrious hand; How grateful to their sight The shore of shelving sand As the light boat moves joyfully to land ! Woods they beheld, and huts, and piles of wood, And many a trace of toil, But not green fields or pastures. 'Twas a land Of pines and sand; Dark pines, that from the loose and sparkling soil Rose in their strength aspiring: far and wide They sent their searching roots on every side, And thus, by depth and long extension, found Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous ground: 58 NEW ENGLAND So had they risen and flourished; till the earth, Unstable as its neighboring ocean there, Like an unnatural mother, heaped around Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high; And stifled thus the living things it bore. Half buried thus they stand, Their summits sere and dry, Marking, like monuments, the funeral mound; As when the masts of some tall vessel show Where, on the fatal shoals, the wreck lies whelmed below. Robert Southey. A Cape Cod Native <^> *o <^x <^> <^> (Cape Cod) A FTER an easterly storm in the spring, this *"* beach is sometimes strewn with eastern wood from one end to the other, which, as it belongs to him who saves it, and the Cape is nearly destitute of wood, is a godsend to the inhabitants. We soon met one of these wreckers, a regular Cape Cod man, with whom we par- leyed, with a bleached and weather-beaten face, within whose wrinkles I distinguished no particu- lar feature. It was like an old sail endowed with life, a hanging-cliff of weather-beaten flesh, like one of the clay boulders which occurred in that SCITUATE 59 sand-bank. He had on a hat which had seen salt water, and a coat of many pieces and colors, though it was mainly the color of the beach, as if it had been sanded. His variegated back for his coat had many patches, even between the shoulders was a rich study to us when we had passed him and looked around. It might have been dishonorable for him to have so many scars behind, it is true, if he had not had many more and more serious ones in front. He looked as if he sometimes saw a doughnut, but never de- scended to comfort, too grave to laugh, too tough to cry; as indifferent as a clam, like a sea- clam with hat on and legs, that was out walk- ing the strand. He may have been one of the Pilgrims, Peregrine White, at least, who has kept on the back side of the Cape, and let the centuries go by. Henry David Thoreau. The Old Oaken Bucket -s> ^y ^> "Q> (Scituate) "LJOW dear to this heart are the scenes of my * * childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- wood, And every loved spot which myirifancy knew; 60 NEW ENGLAND The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, . Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. NANTASKET 6 1 And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth. Agassiz -o> *^> ^> (Nantasket) T STAND again on the familiar shore, * And hear the waves of the distracted sea Piteously calling and lamenting thee, And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the seaweed on the ocean floor, The willows in the meadow, and the free Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me; Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more ? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men Are busy with their trivial affairs, Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then , - Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be dead ? Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 62 NEW ENGLAND The Harbor <^ -^> <^> ^> <^x ^> (Boston) CCATTERED within the peaceful bay ^ Many a fair isle and islet lay, And rocks and banks which threatened there No peril to the mariner. The shores which bent around were gay With maizals, and with pastures green, And rails and hedge-row trees between, And fields for harvest white, And dwellings sprinkled up and down; And round about the clustered town, Which rose in sunshine bright, Was many a sheltered garden spot, And many a sunny orchard plot, And bowers which might invite The studious man to take his seat Within their quiet, cool retreat, When noon was at its height. No heart that was at ease, I ween, Could gaze on that surrounding scene Without a calm delight. Robert Southey. The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor <^> <^> (Boston) " pRAISE ye the Lord !" The psalm to-day * Still rises on our ears, Borne from the hills of Boston Bay Through five times fifty years, BOSTON 63 When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept Out to the open main, And through the widening waters swept, In April sun and rain. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships As faded Yarmouth Bay. They passed the Stilly Isles that day, And May-days came, and June, And thrice upon the ocean lay The full orb of the moon. And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay, Ere England sunk from view, While yet the rippling Solent lay In April skies of blue, "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Each morn was shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay; Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas, Through Maytime morns, and June, Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, Low 'neath the summer moon; And as Cape Ann arose to view, And Norman's Woe they passed, The wood-doves came the white mists through, And circled round each mast. 64 NEW ENGLAND "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Then called the leader, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay. Above the sea the hill-tops fair God's towers began to rise, And odors rare breathe through the air, Like balms of Paradise. Through burning skies the ospreys flew, And near the pine-cooled shores Danced airy boat and thin canoe, To flash of sunlit oars. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray !" Then prayer arose, and all the ships Sailed into Boston Bay. The white wings folded, anchors down, The sea-worn fleet in line, Fair rose the hills where Boston town Should rise from clouds of pine; Fair was the harbor, summit-walled, And placid lay the sea. "Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; "Praise ye the Lord," spake he. " Give thanks to God with fervent lips, Give thanks to God to-day," The anthem rose from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay. BOSTON 65 " Praise ye the Lord !" Primeval woods First heard the ancient song, And summer hills and solitudes The echoes rolled along. The Red Cross flag of England blew Above the fleet that day, While Shawmut's triple peaks in view In amber hazes lay. "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day." The anthem rose from all the ships Safe moored in Boston Bay. The Arabella leads the song The Mayflower sings below, That erst the Pilgrims bore along The Plymouth reefs of snow. Oh ! never be that psalm forgot That rose o'er Boston Bay, When Winthrop sang, and Endicott, And Saltonstall, that day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" And praise arose from all the ships, Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay. That psalm our fathers sang we sing, That psalm of peace and wars, While o'er our heads unfolds its wing The flag of forty stars. 66 NEW ENGLAND And while the nation finds a tongue For nobler gifts to pray, 'Twill ever sing the song they sung That first Thanksgiving Day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" So rose the song from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay. Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms, As David's treasures old Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, To lily- work of gold. Ho ! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, Ho ! ships of Boston Bay, Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide To this Thanksgiving Day ! We pray to God with fervent lips, We praise the Lord to-day, As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, But psalms from Boston Bay. Hezekiah Butter-worth. A Ballad of the French Fleet <^ <^> *^> Boston, October, 1746. MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. A FLEET with flags arrayed ** Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest." BOSTON 67 For this Admiral D'Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet, And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly: "Let us pray ! "O Lord ! we would not advise; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be." This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed The answering tempest came; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. 68 NEW ENGLAND The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!" The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these ! Like a potter's vessel broke The great ships of the line; They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord ! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BOSTON 69 Boston Common. Three Pictures <^x <^> (Boston) 1630 A LL overgrown with bush and fern, *"* And straggling clumps of tangled trees, With trunks that lean and boughs that turn, Bent eastward by the mastering breeze, With spongy bogs that drip and fill A yellow pond with muddy rain, Beneath the shaggy southern hill Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain. And hark! the trodden branches crack; A crow flaps off with startled scream; A straying woodchuck canters back ; A bittern rises from the stream; Leaps from his lair a frightened deer; An otter plunges in the pool; Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer, The parson on his brindled bull ! 1774 The streets are thronged with trampling feet, The northern hill is ridged with graves, But night and morn the drum is beat To frighten down the "rebel knaves." The stones of King Street still are red, And yet the bloody red-coats come: I hear their pacing sentry's tread, The click of steel, the tap of drum, O NEW ENGLAND And over all the open green, Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den, And soon their whistling showers shall stain " The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men. 1869 Around the green, in morning light, The spired and palaced summits blaze, And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height The dome-crowned city spreads her rays; They span the waves, they belt the plains, They skirt the roads with bands of white, Till with a flash of gilded panes Yon farthest hillside bounds the sight. Peace, Freedom, Wealth! no fairer view, Though with the wild-bird's restless wings We sailed beneath the noontide's blue Or chased the moonlight's endless rings ! Here, fitly raised by grateful hands His holiest memory to recall, The Hero's, Patriot's image stands; He led our sires who won them all ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. BOSTON /I From An Ode in Time of Hesitation *z> <^> (.Boston) (Written after seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted Negro Regiment, the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.) "DEFORE the living bronze Saint-Gaudens made ^ Most fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe, And set it here in the city's talk and trade To the good memory of Robert Shaw, This bright March morn I stand And hear the distant spring come up the land; Knowing that what I hear is not unheard Of this boy soldier and his negro band, For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead, For all the fatal rhythm of their tread. The land they died to save from death and shame Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name, And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred. n Through street and mall the tides of people go Heedless; the trees upon the Common show No hint of green; but to my listening heart The still earth doth impart Assurance of her jubilant emprise, 72 NEW ENGLAND And it is clear to my long-searching eyes That love at last has might upon the skies. The ice is runneled on the little pond; A telltale patter drips from off the trees; The air is touched with southland spiceries, As if but yesterday it tossed the frond Of pendent mosses where the live oaks grow Beyond Virginia and the Carolines, Or had its will among the fruits and vines Of aromatic isles asleep beyond Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. ra Soon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee, Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse; Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose Go honking northward over Tennessee; West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie, And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung, And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young, Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates, With restless violent hands and casual tongue Molding her mighty fates, The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen; And, like a larger sea, the vital green Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung Over Dakota and the prairie states. BOSTON 73 By desert people immemorial On Arizonian mesas shall be done Dim rites to the thunder and the sun; Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice More splendid, when the white Sierras call. Unto the Rockies straightway to arise And dance before the unveiled ark of the year, Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms, Unrolling rivers clear For nutter of broad phylacteries; While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep And Mariposa through the purple calms Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms Where East and West are met, A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set To say that East and West are twain, With different loss and gain : The Lord hath sundered them, let them be sundered yet. rv Alas! what sounds are these that come Sullenly over the Pacific seas, Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb The season's half-awakened ecstasies? 74 NEW ENGLAND Must I be humble, then, Now when my heart hath need of pride? Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men; By loving much the land for which they died I would be justified. My spirit was away on pinions wide To soothe in praise of her its passionate mood And ease it of its ache of gratitude. Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay On me and the companions of my day. I would remember now My country's godliness, make sweet her name. Alas! what shade art thou Of sorrow or of blame Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow, And pointest a slow finger at her shame? William Vaughn Moody. The Dorchester Giant <^y *o *^x o (Boston) '"PHERE was a giant in time of old, * A mighty one was he: He had a wife, but she was a scold, So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold; And he had children three. BOSTON 75 It happened to be an election day, And the giants were choosing a king; The people were not democrats then; They did not talk of rights of men, And all that sort of thing. Then the giant took his children three And fastened them in the pen; The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be still!" And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill Rolled back the sound again. Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums, As big as the State House dome; Quoth he, "There's something for you to eat; So stop your mouths with your 'lection treat, And wait till your dad comes home." So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout, And whittled the boughs away; The boys and their mother set up a shout; Said he, "You're in and you can't get out, Bellow as loud as you may." Off he went, and he growled a tune As he strode the fields along; 'Tis said a buffalo fainted away, And fell as cold as a lump of clay, When he heard the giant's song. 7 6 NEW ENGLAND But whether the story's true or not, It is not for me to show; There is many a thing that's twice as queer, In somebody's lectures that we hear, And those are true, you know. What are those loved ones doing now, The wife and children sad? Oh, they are in a terrible rout, Screaming and throwing their pudding about, Acting as they were mad. They flung it over to Roxbury hills, They flung it over the plain, And all over Milton and Dorchester too Great lumps of pudding the giants threw, They tumbled as thick as rain. Giant and mammoth have passed away, For ages have floated by; The suet is hard as a marrow bone, And every plum is turned to stone, But there the puddings lie. And if, some pleasant afternoon, You'll ask me out to ride, The whole of the story I will tell, And you may see where the puddings fell, And pay for the punch beside. Oliver Wendell Holmes. CAMBRIDGE 77 From The Washington Elm {Cambridge) Musing beneath the legendary tree, 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. 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, Blow many names out: they but fan to flame The self-renewing splendors of thy fame. James Russell Lowell. From An Indian Summer Reverie (The Charles River) "D ELOW, the Charles a stripe of nether sky, -*-^ Now hid by rounded apple-trees between, Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by, Now flickering golden through a woodland screen, 78 NEW ENGLAND Then spreading out, at his next turn beyond, A silver circle like an inland pond Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green. Dear marshes ! vain to him the gift of sight Who cannot in their various incomes share, From every season drawn, of shade and light, Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free On them its largess of variety, For Nature with cheap means still works her won- ders rare. In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green, O 'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet: Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen, There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet; And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, As if the silent shadow of a cloud Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet. All round, upon the river's slippery edge, Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; THE CHARLES RIVER 79 Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide, Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide. In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see, As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass, The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee, Their sharp scythes panting through the thick- set grass; Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring, Their nooning take, while one begins to sing, A stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass. Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in mid quaver stops Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And 'twixt the windrows most demurely drops, A decorous bird of business, who provides For his brown mate and fledglings six besides, And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops. 8O NEW ENGLAND Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddens not; they still show merrier tints, Though sober russet seems to cover all; When the first sunshine through their dew- drops glints, Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across, Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss, As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints. Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest, Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill, While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west, Glow opposite; the marshes drink their fill And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade, Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill. Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts, Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates, And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, While firmer ice the eager boy awaits, THE CHARLES RIVER 8 1 Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire, And until bedtime plays with his desire, Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates; Then, every morn, the river's banks shine bright With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail, By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night, 'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt away, And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail. And now those waterfalls the ebbing river Twice every day creates on either side Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiver In grass-arched channels to the sun denied; High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow, The silvered flats gleam frostily below, Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide. But crowned in turn by vying seasons three, Their winter halo hath a fuller ring; This glory seems to rest immovably, The others were too fleet and vanishing; 82 NEW ENGLAND When the hid tide is at its highest flow, O 'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snow With brooding fullness awes and hushes every- thing. The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind, As pale as formal candles lit by day; Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind; The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play, Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee, White crests as of some just enchanted sea, Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway. But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant, From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plains Drives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt, And the roused Charles remembers in his veins Old Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost, That tyrannous silence on the shores is tost In dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns. James Russell Lowell. LYNN 83 The Bells of Lynn o <^> <^> <^> *^> Heard at Nahant (Lynn) O CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynn ! From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn ! Borne on the evening-wind across the crimson twilight, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn ! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn ! Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn ! The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn ! 84 NEW ENGLAND And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, Bells of Lynn ! Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incan- tations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn ! And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Swan Song of Parson Avery <^y *o (Marblehead) the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late, Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife and children eight, Dropping down the riverjiarbor in the shallop "Watch and Wait" Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer- morn, With the newly planted orchards dropping their fruits first-born, And the homesteads like green islands amid a sea of corn. MARBLEHEAD 85 Broad meadows reached out seaward the tided creeks between, And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks and walnuts green; A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eyes had never seen. Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led, And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the living bread To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of Marblehead. All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land- breeze died, The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lights denied, And far and low the thunder of tempest prophe- sied ! Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock and wood and sand; Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the rudder in his hand, And questioned of the darkness what was sea and what was land. 86 NEW ENGLAND And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round him, weeping sore: "Never heed, my little children ! Christ is walking on before To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shall be no more. " All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain drawn aside, To let down the torch of lightning on the terror far and wide; And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote the tide. There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail and man's despair, A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp and bare, And, through it all, the murmur of Father Avery's prayer. From his struggle in the darkness with the wild waves and the blast, On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it passed, Alone, of all his household, the man of God was cast. MARBLEHEAD 8/ There a comrade heard him praying, in the pause of wave and wind: "All my own have gone before me, and I linger just behind; Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ran- somed find!" The ear of God was open to his servant's last request; As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet hymn upward pressed, And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, to its rest. There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocks ' of Marblehead; In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of prayer were read; And long, by board and hearthstone, the living mourned the dead. And still the fishers outbound, or scudding from the squall, With grave and reverent faces, the ancient tale recall, When they see the white waves breaking on the Rock of Avery's Fall ! John Greenleaf Whittier. 88 NEW ENGLAND O 1 Skipper Ireson's Ride ^ ^> <^y (Marblehead) \F all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a- droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! " Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, MARBLEHEAD 89 Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang Over and over the Maenads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! " Small pity for him ! He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim ! Brag of your catch of fish again ! " And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, Looked for the coming that might not be ! 90 NEW ENGLAND What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away? Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea- worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head and fist and hat and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! " MARBLEHEAD 91 "Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, "What to me is this noisy ride ? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within ? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! Hate me and curse me, I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead! Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! why should we?" Said an old wife mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! " So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! John Greenleaf Whittier. 92 NEW ENGLAND From Giles Corey of the Salem Farms <^> (Salem) PROLOGUE "[DELUSIONS of the days that once have been, ^ Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts, These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmos- phere We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past. Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms, Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest, Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace ? 'Twas but a village then : the goodman plowed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; SALEM 93 The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead. Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts ! And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things ! " Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone. This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 94 NEW ENGLAND Salem *o *^> ^> o <^x -o> <^> <^> C WIFT fly the years. Too swift, alas ! *-* A full half-century has flown, Since, through these gardens fair and pastures lone And down the busy street, Or 'neath the elms whose shadows soft are thrown Upon the common's trampled grass, Pattered my childish feet. Gone are the happy games we played as boys ! Gone the glad shouts, the free and careless joys, The fights, the feuds, the friendships that we had, And all the trivial things that had the power, When Youth was in its early flower, To make us sad or glad ! Gone the familiar faces that we knew, Silent the voices that once thrilled us through, And ghosts are everywhere ! They peer from every window-pane, From every alley, street, and lane They whisper on the air. They haunt the meadows green and wide, The garden- walk, the river-side, The beating mill adust with meal, The rope- walk with its whirring wheel, The elm grove on the sunny ridge, The rattling draw, the echoing bridge; The lake on which we used to float What time the blue jay screamed his note, SALEM 95 The voiceful pines that ceaselessly Breathed back their answer to the sea, The school-house, where we learned to spell, The church, the solemn-sounding bell, All, all, are full of them. Where'er we turn, howe'er we go, Ever we hear their voices dim That sing to us as in a dream The song of "Long ago." Ah me, how many an autumn day We watched with palpitating breast Some stately ship, from India or Cathay, Laden with spicy odors from the East, Come sailing up the bay ! Unto our youthful hearts elate What wealth beside their real freight Of rich material things they bore ! Ours were Arabian cargoes, fair, Mysterious, exquisite, and rare; From far romantic lands built out of air On an ideal shore Sent by Aladdin, Camaralzaman, Morgiana, or Badoura, or the Khan. Treasures of Sindbad, vague and wondrous things Beyond the reach of aught but Youth's imaginings. ***** How oft half-fearfully we prowled Around those gabled houses, quaint and old, 96 NEW ENGLAND Whose legends, grim and terrible, Of witch and ghost that used in them to dwell, Around the twilight fire were told; While huddled close with anxious ear We heard them, quivering with fear, And, if the daylight half o'ercame the spell, 'Twas with a lingering dread We oped the door and touched the stinging bell In the dark shop that led, For some had fallen under time's disgrace, To meaner uses and a lower place. But as we heard it ring, our hearts' quick pants Almost were audible; For with its sound it seemed to rouse the dead, And wake some ghost from out the dusky haunts Where faint the daylight fell. Upon the sunny wharves how oft Within some dim secluded loft We played, and dreamed the livelong day, And all the world was ours in play; We cared not, let it slip away, And let the sandy hour-glass run, Time is so long, and life so long When it has just begun. William Wetmore Story. BEVERLY 97 Hannah Binding Shoes <^> *> ^ ^> "O (Beverly) "DOOR lone Hannah, * Sitting at the window, binding shoes. Faded, wrinkled, Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree: Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Not a neighbor Passing nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, "Is there from the fishers any news ? " Oh, her heart's adrift, with one On an endless voyage gone ! Night and morning, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes: Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues. May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so ! For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 98 NEW ENGLAND May is passing: Mid the apple boughs a pigeon cooes. Hannah shudders, For the mild southwester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped: Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. * "Pis November, Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben ? " Old with watching, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Twenty winters Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. Twenty seasons: Never one has brought her any news. Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea: Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Lucy Larcom. BEVERLY 99 Skipper Ben <^y -Q> <^x ^> ^> <^> ^> (Beverly) SAILING away ! Losing the breath of the shores in May, Dropping down from the beautiful bay, Over the sea-slope vast and gray ! And the skipper's eyes with a mist are blind; For a vision comes on the rising wind, Of a gentle face, that he leaves behind, And a heart that throbs through the fog-bank dim, Thinking of him. Far into night He watches the gleam of the lessening light Fixed on the dangerous island height, That bars the harbor he loves from sight. And he wishes, at dawn, he could tell the tale Of how they had weathered the southwest gale, To brighten the cheek that had grown so pale With a wakeful night among specters grim, Terrors for him. Yo-heave-yo ! Here's the Bank where the fishermen go. Over the schooner's sides they throw Tackle and bait to the deeps below. And Skipper Ben in the water sees, When its ripples curl to the light land breeze, Something that stirs like his apple-trees; 100 NEW ENGLAND And two soft eyes that beneath them swim, Lifted to him. Hear the wind roar, And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour! "Steady ! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore, Then hark to the Beverly bells once more ! " And each man worked with the will of ten; While up in the rigging, now and then, The lightning glared in the face of Ben, Turned to the black horizon's rim, Scowling on him. Into his brain Burned with the iron of hopeless pain, Into thoughts that grapple, and eyes that strain, Pierces the memory, cruel and vain ! Never again shall he walk at ease, Under his blossoming apple-trees, That whisper and sway to the sunset breeze, While the soft eyes float where the sea-gulls skim, Gazing with him. How they went down Never was known in the still old town. Nobody guessed how the fisherman brown, With the look of despair that was half a frown, Faced his fate in the furious night, Faced the mad billows with hunger white, Just within hail of the beacon-light BAKER'S ISLAND IOI That shone on a woman sweet and trim, Waiting for him. Beverly bells, Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells ! His was the anguish a moment tells, The passionate sorrow death quickly knells. But the wearing wash of a lifelong woe Is left for the desolate heart to know, Whose tides with the dull years come and go Till hope drifts dead to its stagnant brim, Thinking of him. Litcy Larcom. The Light-Houses <^> <^ <^ <^ <^x <^> (Baker's Island) pale sisters, all alone, On an island bleak and bare, Listening to the breakers' moan, Shivering in the chilly air; Looking inland towards a hill, On whose top one aged tree Wrestles with the storm-wind's will, Rushing, wrathful, from the sea. Two dim ghosts at dusk they seem, Side by side, so white and tall, Sending one long, hopeless gleam Down the horizon's darkened wall. Specters, strayed from plank or spar, With a tale none lives to tell, 102 NEW ENGLAND Gazing at the town afar, Where unconscious widows dwell. Two white angels of the sea, Guiding wave- worn wanderers home; Sentinels of hope they be, Drenched with sleet, and dashed with foam, Standing there in loneliness, Fireside joys for men to keep; Through the midnight slumberless That the quiet shore may sleep. Two bright eyes awake all night To the fierce moods of the sea; Eyes that only close when light Dawns on lonely hill and tree. O kind watchers ! teach us, too, Steadfast courage, sufferance long ! Where an eye is turned to you, Should a human heart grow strong. Lucy Larcom. The Wreck of the Hesperus . <^x <^> <^> (Gloucester) TT was the schooner Hesperus, * That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, GLOUCESTER 103 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south. 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. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see ! " The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." 104 NEW ENGLAND He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be ? " "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " And he steered for the open sea. "O father ! I hear the sound of guns, say, what may it be ? " "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea! " "O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be ? " But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hand, and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. GLOUCESTER 105 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the w r hite and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank, Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. IO6 NEW ENGLAND The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Gloucester Moors ^> <^ <^x *^> *^> (East Gloucester) A MILE behind is Gloucester town ** Where the fishing fleets put in, A mile ahead the land dips down And the woods and farms begin. Here, where the moors stretch free In the high blue afternoon, Are the marching sun and talking sea, And the racing winds that wheel and fiee On the flying heels of June. Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The wild geranium holds its dew Long in the boulder's shade. EAST GLOUCESTER IO/ Wax-red hangs the cup From the huckleberry boughs, In barberry bells the gray moths sup, Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up Sweet bowls for their carouse. Over the shelf of the sandy cove Beach-peas blossom late. By copse and cliff the swallows rove, Each calling to his mate. Seaward the sea-gulls go, And the land-birds all are here; That green-gold flash was a vireo, And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow Was a scarlet tanager. This earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. These summer clouds she sets for sail, The sun is her masthead light, She tows the moon like a pinnace frail Where her phosphor wake churns bright. 108 NEW ENGLAND Now hid, now looming clear, On the face of the dangerous blue The star fleets tack and wheel and veer, But on, but on does the old earth steer As if her port she knew. God, dear God ! Does she know her port, Though she goes so far about ? Or blind astray, does she make her sport To brazen and chance it out ? I watched when her captains passed: She were better captainless. Men in the cabin, before the mast, But some were reckless and some aghast, And some sat gorged at mess. By her battened hatch I leaned and caught Sounds from the noisome hold, Cursing and sighing of souls distraught And cries too sad to be told. Then I strove to go down and see; But they said, "Thou art not of us ! " I turned to those on the deck with me And cried, " Give help ! " But they said, "Let be: Our ship sails faster thus." Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, EAST GLOUCESTER 1 09 The alder-clump where the brook comes through Breeds cresses in its shade. To be out of the moiling street With its swelter and its sin ! Who has given to me this sweet, And given my brother dust to eat ? And when will his wage come in ? Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town. There is cash to purse and spend, There are wives to be embraced, Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end, little sails, make haste ! But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee ? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see ? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her k>, While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do ? William Vaughn Moody. I 10 NEW ENGLAND From The Garrison of Cape Ann ^> (Cape Ann) \ 1 7"HERE the sea-waves back and forward, ^ hoarse with rolling pebbles, ran, The garrison-house stood watching on the gray rocks of Cape Ann; On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and pali- sade, And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moon- light overlaid. On his slow round walked the sentry, south and eastward looking forth O'er a rude and broken coast-line, white with breakers stretching north, Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, jagged capes, with bush and tree, Leaning inland from the smiting of the wild and gusty sea. Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit by dying brands, Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their mus- kets in their hands; On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunch was shared, And the pewter tankard circled slowly round from beard to beard. CAPE ANN III Long they sat and talked together, talked of wizards Satan-sold; Of all ghostly sights and noises, signs and won- ders manifold; Of the specter-ship of Salem, with the dead men in her shrouds, Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom of morning clouds; Of the marvelous valley hidden in the depths of Gloucester woods, Full of plants that love the summer, blooms of warmer latitudes; Where the Arctic birch is braided by the tropic's flowery vines, And the white magnolia-blossoms star the twilight of the pines ! But their voices sank yet lower, sank to husky tones of fear, As they spake of present tokens of the powers of evil near; Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aim of gun; Never yet was ball to slay them in the mold of mortals run ! Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp-locks, from the midnight wood they came, Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed, its volleyed flame; 112 NEW ENGLAND Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk in earth or lost in air, All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlit sands lay bare. Midnight came; from out the forest moved a dusky mass that soon Grew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimly marching in the moon. "Ghosts or witches," said the captain, "thus I foil the Evil One ! " And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet, down his gun. Once again the spectral horror moved the guarded wall about; Once again the leveled muskets through the pali- sades flashed out, With that deadly aim the squirrel on his tree-top might not shun Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with his slant wing to the sun. Like the idle rain of summer sped the harmless shower of lead. With a laugh of fierce derision, once again the phantoms fled; CAPE ANN 113 Once again, without a shadow on the sands the moonlight lay, And the white smoke curling through it drifted slowly down the bay ! "God preserve us!" said the captain; "never mortal foes were there; They have vanished with their leader, Prince and Power of the air ! Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and prowess naught avail; They who do the Devil's service wear their mas- ter's coat of mail ! " So the night grew near to cock-crow, when again a warning call Roused the score of weary soldiers watching round the dusky hall: And they looked to flint and priming, and they longed for break of day; But the captain closed his Bible: "Let us cease from man, and pray ! " To the men who went before us, all the unseen powers seemed near, And their steadfast strength of courage struck its roots in holy fear. 114 NEW ENGLAND Every hand forsook the musket, every head was bowed and bare, Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, as the captain led in prayer. Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spec- ters round the wall, But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the ears and hearts of all, Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish ! Never after mortal man Saw the ghostly leaguers marching round the block-house of Cape Ann. ***** John Greenleaf Whittier. Ipswich Town<^x ^> <^> <^> *o> <^> <^ T LOVE to think of old Ipswich town * Old Ipswich town in the East Countree ! Where on the tide you can drift down Through the long salt grass to the wailing sea. Where the Mayflower found, long years agone, A hissing bar and an angry lee; And dared not enter, but sailed away Till she landed her boats in Plymouth Bay ! I love to think of old Ipswich town, Where Whitefield preached in the church on the hill, And drove out the Devil, 'till he leaped down From the steeple's top, and they show you still IPSWICH 1 1 5 Imbedded deep in the solid rock The indelible print of his iron hoof, And tell you the Devil has never shown Face or hoof, since that day, in the honest town! I love to think of old Ipswich town. That house to your right, a rod or more, Where the stern old elm trees seem to frown If you peer too hard through the open door, Sheltered the Regicide Judges three When the Royal Sheriffs were after them: And a queer old villager once I met Who swears in the cellar they're living yet ! I love to think of old Ipswich town. Harry Main, so the legend runs, lived there ! He blasphemed God, so they sent him down With an iron shovel, to Ipswich bar: They chained him there for a thousand years When the sea rolls in to shovel it back: So when the sea cries the people say "Harry Main growls at his work to-day." I love to think of old Ipswich town Where they locked up the witches until the day When they should be roasted so thoroughly brown In Salem village, twelve miles away ! They've moved it off for a stable now, But there are the holes where the stout gaol stood, Il6 NEW ENGLAND And at night they say that over the holes You can see the ghost of Goody Cowles ! I love to think of old Ipswich town Of its saddest lore is the ancient lay Of Heartbreak Hill and its poetry And how human hearts are the same alway ! She sat on its crest and watched the sea, She was a savage, but she was true, But an English sailor his word betrayed And he broke the heart of an Indian maid ! I love to think of old Ipswich town ! There's a graveyard up on the old High Street Whence ten generations are looking down On the one that is toiling at their feet: Where the stones stand shoulder to shoulder, like troops Drawn up to receive a cavalry charge; And graves have been dug in graves till the sod Is the mold of good men gone to God ! I love to think of old Ipswich town, Old Ipswich town in the East Countree ! Where on the tide you can drift down Through the long salt grass to the wailing sea ! And lie all day on the glassy beach And guess the lesson the green waves teach ! Till at sunset, from surf and seaweed brown You are pulling back to Ipswich town ! James Appleton Morgan. IPSWICH 1 1 7 Heartbreak Hill ^> <^ ^> ^> (Andover) 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; The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past, The school-boy's chosen home is reached at last. 120 NEW ENGLAND I see it now, the same unchanging spot, The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 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; 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. Brave, but with effort, had the school-boy come To the cold comfort of a stranger's home; How like a dagger to my sinking heart Came the dry summons, "It is time to part; Good-by!" " Goo-ood-by ! " one fond maternal kiss. Homesick as death ! Was ever pang like this ? Too young as yet with willing feet to stray From the tame fireside, glad to get away, Too old to let my watery grief appear, And what so bitter as a swallowed tear! ANDOVER 1 2 1 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, 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, 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, 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. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 122 NEW ENGLAND The Double-headed Snake of Newbury ^ (Newbury) "Concerning ye Amphisbaena, as soon as I received your commands, I made diligent inquiry: .... he assures me y* hud really two heads, one at each end; two mouths, two stings or tongues." KEV. CHRIS- TOPHER TOPPAN TO COTTON MATHER. T7 AR away in the twilight time *- Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, Born of water and air and fire, Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, Through dusk tradition and ballad age. So from the childhood of Newbury town And its time of fable the tale comes down Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake ! Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, Consider that strip of Christian earth On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, Full of terror and mystery, Half redeemed from the evil hold Of the wood so dreary and dark and old, Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew When Time was young, and the world was new, And wove its shadows with sun and moon, Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. NEWBURY 123 Think of the sea's dread monotone, Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown, Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, And the dismal tales the Indian told, Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold, And he shrank from the tawny wizard's boasts, And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, And above, below, and on every side, The fear of his creed seemed verified; And think, if his lot were now thine own, To grope with terrors nor named nor known, How laxer muscle and weaker nerve And a feebler faith thy need might serve; And own to thyself the wonder more That the snake had two heads, and not a score ! Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, Or swam in the \vooded Artichoke, Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, Nothing on record is left to show; Only the fact that he lived, we know, And left the cast of a double head In the scaly mask which he yearly shed. For he carried a head where his tail should be, And the two, of course, could never agree, 124 NEW ENGLAND But wriggled about with main and might, Now to the left and now to the right; Pulling and twisting this way and that, Neither knew what the other was at. A snake with two heads, lurking so near ! Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear ! Think what ancient gossips might say, Shaking their heads in their dreary way, Between the meetings on Sabbath-day ! How urchins, searching at day's decline The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, The terrible double-ganger heard In leafy rustle or whir of bird ! Think what a zest it gave to the sport, In berry-time, of the younger sort, As over pastures blackberry-twined, Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, And closer and closer, for fear of harm, The maiden clung to her lover's arm; And how the spark, who was forced to stay, By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, Thanked the snake for the fond delay ! Far and wide the tale was told, Like a snowball growing while it rolled. The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; And it serv.ed, in the worthy minister's eye, To paint the primitive serpent by. NEWBURY 125 Cotton Mather came galloping down All the way to Newbury town, With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, And his marvelous inkhorn at his side; Stirring the while in the shallow pool Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, To garnish the story, with here a streak Of Latin, and there another of Greek : And the tales he heard and the notes he took, Behold ! are they not in his Wonder-Book ? Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. If the snake does not, the tale runs still In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. And still, whenever husband and wife Publish the shame of their daily strife, And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and strain At either end of the marriage-chain, The gossips say, with a knowing shake Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double Snake! One in body and two in will, The Amphisbaena is living still ! " John Greenleaf Whittier. 126 NEW ENGLAND The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall <^> ^x ^ (Newbury) 1697 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 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, 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, 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, That man might honor and woman trust. ***** 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. NEWBURY 1 27 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; A silver arrow from out them sprung, I see the shine of the Quasycung; And, round and round, over valley and hill, Old roads winding, as old roads will, Here to a ferry, and there to a mill; 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 thresholds of oak and stone Life and Death have come and gone ! 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, 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 And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, And, where north and south the coast-lines run, The blink of the sea in breeze and sun ! 128 NEW ENGLAND I see it all like a chart unrolled, But my thoughts are full of the past and old; 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. I 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, 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: "As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast As God appointed, shall keep its post; As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep Of Merrimac River, or sturgeon leap; As long as pickerel swift and slim, Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; As long as the annual sea-fowl know Their time to come and their time to go; As long as cattle shall roam at will The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; As long as sheep shall look from the side Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, NEVVBURY 1 29 And Parker River, and salt-sea tide; As long as a wandering pigeon shall search The fields below from his white-oak perch, 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, 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, But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, Be sown again in the fields of light ! " The Island still is purple with plums, Up the river the salmon comes, The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds 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, 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 ! John Greenleaf Whittier. 130 NEW ENGLAND The Preacher <^> <^> <^> <^> ^> <^ (Newbtiryport) TTS windows flashing to the sky, * Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, Far down the vale, my friend and I Beheld the old and quiet town: The ghostly sails that out at sea Flapped their white wings of mystery, The beaches glimmering in the sun, And the low wooded capes that run Into the sea- mist north and south; The sand-bluffs at the river's mouth; The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar, The foam-line of the harbor-bar. Over the woods and meadow-lands A crimson-tinted shadow lay Of clouds through which the setting day Flung a slant glory far away. It glittered on the wet sea-sands, It flamed upon the city's panes, Smote the white sails of ships that wore Outward or in, and glided o'er The steeples with their veering vanes ! Awhile my friend with rapid search O'erran the landscape. "Yonder spire Over gray roofs, a shaft of fire; NEWBURYPORT 1 3 1 What is it, pray ? " " The Whitefield Church ! Walled about by its basement stones, There rest the marvelous prophet's bones." Then as our homeward way we walked, Of the great preacher's life we talked; And through the mystery of our theme The outward glory seemed to stream, And Nature's self interpreted The doubtful record of the dead; And every level beam that smote The sails upon the dark afloat, A symbol of the light became Which touched the shadows of our blame With tongues of Pentecostal flame. ***** Under the church of Federal Street, Under the tread of its Sabbath feet, Walled about by its basement stones, Lie the marvelous preacher's bones. No saintly honors to them are shown, No sign nor miracle have they known; But he who passes the ancient church Stops in the shade of its belfry-porch, And ponders the wonderful life of him Who lies at rest in that charnel dim. Long shall the traveler strain his eye From the railroad car, as it plunges by, And the vanishing town behind him search For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church; 132 NEW ENGLAND And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade And fashion and folly and pleasure laid, By the thought of that life of pure intent, That voice of warning yet eloquent, Of one on the errands of angels sent. And if where he labored the flood of sin Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in, And over a life of time and sense The church-spires lift their vain defense, As if to scatter the bolts of God With the points of Calvin's thunder-rod, Still, as the gem of its civic crown, Precious beyond the world's renown, His memory hallows the ancient town ! John Greenleaf Whittier. Beaver Brook <^ <^> -o <^y (Waverly) TJTUSHED with broad sunlight lies the hill, And, minuting the long day's loss, The cedar's shadow, slow and still, Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss. Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, The aspen's leaves are scarce astir; Only the little mill sends up Its busy, never-ceasing burr. WAVERLY 133 Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems The road along the mill-pond's brink, From 'neath the arching barberry-stems, My footstep scares the shy chewink. Beneath a bony buttonwood The mill's red door lets forth the din; The whitened miller, dust-imbued, Flits past the square of dark within. No mountain torrent's strength is here; Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, And gently waits the miller's will. Swift slips Undine along the race Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Floods the dull wheel with light and grace, And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round. The miller dreams not at what cost The quivering millstones hum and whirl, Nor how for every turn are tost Armfuls of diamond and of pearl. But Summer cleared my happier eyes With drops of some celestial juice, To see how Beauty underlies Forevermore each form of Use. 134 NEW ENGLAND And more: methought I saw that flood, Which now so dull and darkling steals, Thick, here and there, with human blood, To turn the world's laborious wheels. No more than doth the miller there, Shut in our several cells, do we Know with what waste of beauty rare Moves every day's machinery. Surely the wiser time shall come When this fine overplus of might, No longer sullen, slow, and dumb, Shall leap to music and to light. In that new childhood of the Earth Life of itself shall dance and play, Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make mirth, And labor meet delight half-way. James Russell Lowell. A Song for Lexington ^y <^> <^, <^x ^> (Lexington) HPHE spring came earlier on -* Than usual that year; The shadiest snow was gone, The slowest brook was clear, And warming in the sun Shy flowers began to peer. LEXINGTON 13$ 'Twas more like middle May, The earth so seemed to thrive, That Nineteenth April day Of Seventeen Seventy-Five; Winter was well away, New England was alive ! Alive and sternly glad ! Her doubts were with the snow; Her courage, long forbade, Ran full to overflow; And every hope she had Began to bud and grow. She rose betimes that morn, For there was work to do; A planting, not of corn, Of what she hardly knew, Blessings for men unborn; And well she did it too ! With open hand she stood, And sowed for all the years, And watered it with blood, And watered it with tears, The seed of quickening food For both the hemispheres. This was the planting done That April morn of fame; 136 NEW ENGLAND Honor to every one To that seed-field that came ! Honor to Lexington, Our first immortal name ! Robert Kclley Weeks. Brook (Concord) BROOK FARM, April 13, 1841. "LTERE I am in a polar Paradise ! I know not * * how to interpret this aspect of nature, whether it be of good or evil omen to our enter- prise. But I reflect that the Plymouth pilgrims arrived in the midst of storm, and stepped ashore upon mountain snow-drifts; and, nevertheless, they prospered, and became a great people, and doubtless it will be the same with us. I laud my stars, however, that you will not have your first impressions of (perhaps) our future home from such a day as this. . . . Through faith, I persist in believing that Spring and Summer will come in their due season; but the unregenerated man shivers within me, and sug- gests a doubt whether I may not have wandered within the precincts of the Arctic circle, and chosen my heritage among everlasting snows. . . . I have not yet taken my first lessons in agriculture, except that I went to see our cows foddered, yes- terday afternoon. We have eight of our own ; and CONCORD 137 the number is now increased by a transcendental heifer belonging to Miss Margaret Fuller. She is very fractious, I believe, and apt to kick over the milk-pail. ... I intend to convert myself into a milk-maid this evening, but I pray that Mr. Ripley may be moved to assign me the kindliest cow in the herd, otherwise I shall perform my duty with fear and trembling. I like my brethren in affliction very well; and, could you see us sitting round our table at meal- times, before the great kitchen fire, you would call it a cheerful sight. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Musketaquid *c> <^> ^> <^ <^> <^> ^> <^> ^> <^x (Concord) r "PHY summer voice, Musketaquit, *- Repeats the music of the rain; But sweeter rivers pulsing flit Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain. CONCORD 141 Thou in thy narrow banks art pent: The stream I love unbounded goes Through flood and sea and firmament; Through light, through life, it forward flows. I see the inundation sweet, I hear the spending of the stream Through years, through men, through nature fleet, Through love and thought, through power and dream. Musketaquit, a goblin strong, Of shard and flint makes jewels gay; They lose their grief who hear his song, And where he winds is the day of day. So forth and brighter fares my stream, Who drink it shall not thirst again; No darkness stains its equal gleam, And ages drop in it like rain. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Thoreau's Flute <^> <^y -Q> (Concord) \~\TE, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead; ^ His pipe hangs mute beside the river; Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled. 142 NEW ENGLAND Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him; The Genius of the wood is lost." Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath: "For such as he there is no death; His life the eternal life commands; Above man's aims his nature rose: The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent, And turned to poetry Life's prose. "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine, To him grew human or divine, Fit mates for this large-hearted child. Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. "To him no vain regrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. CONCORD 143 O lonely friend ! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen, Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: Seek not for him, he is with thee." Louisa May Alcott. Walden Lake <^> ^ <^> ^> ^> <^> <^> (Concord) TT is not far beyond the village church, After we pass the wood that skirts the road, A lake, the blue-eyed Walden, that doth smile Most tenderly upon its neighbor pines; And they, as if to recompense this love, In double beauty spread their branches forth. This lake has tranquil loveliness and breadth, And, of late years, has added to its charms; For one attracted to its pleasant edge Has built himself a little hermitage, Where with much piety he passes life. More fitting place I cannot fancy now, For such a man to let the line run off The mortal reel, such patience hath the lake, Such gratitude and cheer is in the pines. But more than either lake or forest's depths This man has in himself: a tranquil man, With sunny sides where well the fruit is ripe, Good front and resolute bearing to this life, 144 NEW ENGLAND And some serener virtues, which control This rich exterior prudence, virtues high, That in the principles of things are set, Great by their nature, and consigned to him, Who, like a faithful merchant, does account To God for what he spends, and in what way. Thrice happy art thou, Walden, in thyself ! Such purity is in thy limpid springs, In those green shores which do reflect in thee, And in this man who dwells upon thy edge, A holy man within a hermitage. May all good showers fall gently into thee, May thy surrounding forests long be spared, And may the dweller on thy tranquil marge There lead a life of deep tranquillity, Pure as thy waters, handsome as thy shores, And with those virtues which are like the stars ! William Ellery Channing. The Snow-Storm ^> ^> *o <^> <^> ^ (Concord) A NNOUNCED 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 traveler stopped, the courier's feet CONCORD 145 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Mauger the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 146 NEW ENGLAND Eliot's Oak o <^* ^ <^> <^ <^ *o (Natick) THOU ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each; To me a language that no man can teach, Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. For underneath thy shade, in days remote, Seated like Abraham at eventide Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote His Bible in a language that hath died And is forgotten, save by thee alone. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. From Tales of a Wayside Inn <^> <^> <^> (Sudbvry) PRELUDE /"YNTE autumn night, in Sudbury town, ^-^ Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with firelight through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. SUDBURY 147 As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills ! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills; Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay; Through the wide doors the breezes blow; The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 148 NEW ENGLAND Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Anne <^> x ^> ^y < ^> y o> *c> "x> < (Sudbwy Meetinghouse, 1653) [ER eyes be like the violets, Ablow in Sudbury lane; When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain; With grief I think of my gray hairs, And wish me young again. In comes she through the dark old door Upon this Sabbath day; And she doth bring the tender wind That sings in bush and tree; And hints of all the apple boughs That kissed her by the way. Our parson stands up straight and tall, For our dear souls to pray, And of the place where sinners go Some gruesome things doth say: Now, she is highest Heaven to me; So Hell is far away. WACHUSETT MT. 149 Most stiff and still the good folk sit To hear the sermon through; But if our God be such a God, And if these things be true, Why did He make her then so fair, And both her eyes so blue ? A flickering light, the sun creeps in, And finds her sitting there; And touches soft her lilac gown, And soft her yellow hair; I look across to that old pew, And have both praise and prayer. Oh, violets in Sudbury lane, Amid the grasses green, This maid who stirs ye with her feet Is far more fair, I ween ! I wonder how my forty years Look by her sweet sixteen ! Lizette Woodworth Reese. Monadnock from Wachusett <^> <^> ^> (Wachusett Mt.) T WOULD I were a painter, for the sake * Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread, Into that mountain mystery. First a lake 150 NEW ENGLAND Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines Of far receding hills; and yet more far Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star. Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachusett laid His head against the West, whose warm light made His aureole; and o'er him, sharp and clear, Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launching stayed, A single level cloud-line, shone upon By the fierce glances of the sunken sun, Menaced the darkness with its golden spear ! So twilight deepened round us. Still and black The great woods climbed the mountain at our back; . And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, The brown old farm-house like a bird's-nest hung. With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred: The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate Of the barnyard creaked beneath the merry weight Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung, WACHUSETT MT. !$! The welcome sound of supper-call to hear; And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear, The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-off is most near: "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look; I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of God! " The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road: We felt that man was more than his abode, The inward life than Nature's raiment more; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul, whose human will Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim. John Greenleaf Whiltier. 152 NEW ENGLAND To Wachusett <^> <^> <^> *o ^> ^ A \ 7TTH frontier strength ye stand your ground, ^ * With grand content ye circle round, Tumultuous silence for all sound, Ye distant nursery of rills, Monadnock, and the Peterboro' hills; Like some vast fleet, Sailing through rain and sleet, Through winter's cold and summer's heat; Still holding on, upon your high emprise, Until ye find a shore amid the skies; Not skulking close to land, With cargo contraband, For they who sent a venture out by ye Have set the sun to see Their honesty. Ships of line, each one, Ye to the westward run, Always before the gale, Under a press of sail, With a weight of metal all untold. I seem to feel ye, in my firm seat here, Immeasurable depth of hold, And breadth of beam, and length of running gear. But special I remember thee, Wachusett, who like me Standest alone without society. SPRINGFIELD 153 Thy far blue eye, A remnant of the sky, Seen through the clearing or the gorge, Or from the windows of the forge, Doth leaven all it passes by. Nothing is true, But stands 'tween me and you, Thou western pioneer, \\ho know'st not shame nor fear, By venturous spirit driven, Under the eaves of heaven, And canst expand thee there, And breathe enough of air ! Upholding heaven, holding down earth, Thy pastime from thy birth, Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other ; May I approve myself thy worthy brother ! Henry David Thoreau. The Arsenal at Springfield -o> <^> ^> <^> (Springfield) THIS is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! 154 NEW ENGLAND What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. SPRINGFIELD 1 5 5 Is it, man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts; The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 156 NEW ENGLAND Lines on Revisiting the Country 1 <^> <^> (Cummington) T STAND upon my native hills again, * Broad, round, and green, that in the sum- mer sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie; While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, And ever restless feet of one, who now Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year; There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. For I have taught her, with delighted eye, To gaze upon the mountains, to behold With deep affection the pure ample sky, And clouds along its blue abysses rolled, To love the song of waters, and to hear The melody of winds with charmed ear. 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. PITTSFIELD 157 Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And, where the season's milder fervors beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come awhile to wander and to dream. Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all The wide earth knows; when, in the sultry time, He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, He seems the breath of a celestial clime ! As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below. William Cullen Bryant. The Old Clock on the Stairs *^> ^ ^x (Pitts field} L'ternit6 est une pendulc, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cessc ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujoussl jamais! Jamais! toujours! " Jacques Bridaine. COMEWHAT back from the village street *** Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across ils antique portico Tall poplar- trees their shadows throw; 158 NEW ENGLAND And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all,- " Forever never ! Never forever ! " Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say, at each chamber-door,- " Forever never ! Never forever ! " Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, PITTSFIELD 159 And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours ! golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, " Forever never ! Never forever !. " From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 160 NEW ENGLAND And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear, Forever there, but never here ! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, "Forever never ! Never forever ! " Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A Rhyme of Tyringham <^* ^> ^ ^> (Tyringham) "P\OWN in the meadow and up on the height *-"* The breezes are blowing the willows white. In the elms and maples the robins call, And the great black crow sails over all In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. TYRINGHAM l6l The river winds through the trees and the brake And the meadow-grass like a shining snake; And low in the summer and loud in the spring The rapids and reaches murmur and sing In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. In the shadowy pools the trout are shy, So creep to the bank and cast the fly ! What thrills and tremors the tense cords stir When the trout it strikes with a tug and whirr In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley ! At dark of the day the mist spreads white, Like a magic lake in the glimmering light; Or the winds from the meadow the white mists blow, And the fireflies glitter, a sky below, In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. And oh, in the windy days of the fall The maples and elms are scarlet all, And the world that was green is gold and red, And with huskings and cider they're late to bed In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. Now squirrel and partridge and hawk and hare And wildcat and woodchuck and fox beware ! The three days' hunt is waxing warm For the count up dinner at Riverside Farm In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. 1 62 NEW ENGLAND The meadow-ice will be freezing soon, And then for a skate by the light of the moon. So pile the wood on the hearth, my boy ! Winter is coming ! I wish you joy By the light of the hearth and the moon, my boy, In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley. Richard Watson Gilder. Evening in Tyringham Valley <^> - <^> <^> *z> (Great Harrington) \ "^ 7"HEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, * * I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green, As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Had given their stain to the wave they drink; And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue. Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, And dear the depths where its eddies play, And dimples deepen and whirl away, 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. GREAT BARRINGTON l6/ And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot The swifter current that mines its root, Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum; The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air; And sweetest the golden autumn day In silence and sunshine glides away. Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, Beautiful stream! by the village side; But windest away from haunts of men, To quiet valley and shaded glen; And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. Lonely, save when, by the rippling tides, From thicket to thicket the angler glides; Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, For herbs of power on thy banks to look; Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. Still, save the chirp of birds that feed On the river cherry and seedy reed, 1 68 NEW ENGLAND And thy own wild music gushing out With mellow murmur or fairy shout, From dawn to the blush of another day, Like traveler singing along his way. That fairy music I never hear, Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, And mark them winding away from sight, Darkened with shade or flashing with light, While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, But I wish that fate had left me free To wander these quiet haunts with thee, Till the eating cares of earth should depart, And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song. Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud, I often come to this quiet place, To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, And gaze upon thee in silent dream, For in thy lonely and lovely stream An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years. William Cullen Bryant. MONUMENT MOUNTAIN 169 Monument Mountain 1 <^y <^- <^y <^y * I ^HOU who wouldst see the lovely and the wild * Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, The haunts of men below thee, and around The mountain summits, thy expanding heart Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world To which thou art translated, and partake The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look Upon the green and rolling forest tops, And down into the secrets of the glens, And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, And swarming roads, and there on solitudes That only hear the torrent, and the wind, And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, To separate its nations, and thrown down 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. NEW ENGLAND When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path Conducts you up the narrow battlement. Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs, Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark With moss, the growth of centuries, and there Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing To stand upon the beetling verge, and see Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene Is lovely round; a beautiful river there Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, The paradise he made unto himself, Mining the soil for ages. On each side The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond, Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise The mountain columns with which earth props heaven. * * * * * William Cullen Bryant. CAPE ARUNDEL I /I MAINE The Old Lobsterman <^> <^> <^, -o> *o> (Cape Arundel) JUST back from a beach of sand and shells, And shingle the tides leave oozy and dank, Summer and winter the old man dwells In his low brown house on the river bank. Tempest and sea-fog sweep the hoar And wrinkled sand-drifts round his door, Where often I see him sit, as gray And weather-beaten and lonely as they. Coarse grasses wave on the arid swells In the wind; and two dwarf poplar-trees Seem hung all over with silver bells That tinkle and twinkle in sun and breeze. All else is desolate sand and stone: And here the old lobsterman lives alone: Nor other companionship has he But to sit in his house and gaze at the sea. A furlong or more away to the south, On the bar beyond the huge sea-walls That keep the channel and guard its mouth, The high, curved billow whitens and falls; 172 NEW ENGLAND And the racing tides through the granite gate, On their wild errands that will not wait, Forever, unresting, to and fro, Course with impetuous ebb and flow. They bury the barnacled ledge, and make Into every inlet, and crooked creek, And flood the flats with a shining lake, Which the proud ship plows with foam at her beak; The ships go up to yonder town, Or over the sea their hulls sink down, And many a pleasure pinnace rides On the restless backs of the rushing tides. I try to fathom the gazer's dreams, But little I gain from his gruff 'replies; Far off, far off the spirit seems, As he looks at me with those strange, gray eyes; Never a hail from the shipwrecked heart ! Mysterious oceans seem to part The desolate man from all his kind The Selkirk of his lonely mind. Solace he finds in the sea, no doubt: To catch the ebb he is up and away: I see him silently pushing out On the broad, bright gleam, at break of day; CAPE ARUNDEL I And watch his lessening dory toss On the purple crests as he pulls across, Round reefs where silvery surges leap, And meets the dawn on the rosy deep. His soul, is it open to sea and sky ? His spirit, alive to sound and sight ? What wondrous tints on the water lie, Wild, wavering, liquid realm of light ! Between two glories looms the shape Of yon wood-crested, cool green cape, Sloping all round to foam-laced ledge, And cavern and cove, at the bright sea's edge. He makes for the floats that mark the spots, And rises and falls on the sweeping swells, Ships oars, and pulls his lobster-pots, And tumbles the tangled claws and shells 'In the leaky bottom; and bails his skiff; While the slow waves thunder along the cliff, And foam far away where sun and mist Edge all the region with amethyst; I watch him, and fancy how, a boy, Round these same reefs, in the rising sun, He rowed and rocked, and shouted for joy, As over the boat-side, one by one, 1/4 NEW ENGLAND He lifted and launched his lobster-traps, And reckoned his gains, and dreamed, perhaps, Of a future as glorious, vast, and bright As the ocean, unrolled in the morning light. John Townsend Trowbridge. From Mogg Megone <^> <^> <^> (Safo River) "I ~K THO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, * * Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, Lonely, and sternly, save Mogg Megone ? Close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its pathway hewing! Far down, through the mist of the falling river, Which rises up like an incense ever, The splintered points of the crags are seen, With water howling and vexed between, While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! John Greenleaf Whittier. SACO RIVER 175 From Mary Garvin *^> ^> (Saco River) T^ROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's in- tervales; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow, As when Darby Field first saw them, two hun- dred years ago. But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its free- dom of the hills, Since traveled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet of the loon ! With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam, Wide- waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream. Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly back- ward far and fast The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past. I7 6 NEW ENGLAND But human hearts remain unchanged: The sor- row and the sin, The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own akin; And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs our mothers sung, Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always young. ***** John Greenleaf Whittier. Funeral-Tree of the Sokokis <^ ^x - (Sebago Lake) 1756 A ROUND Sebago's lonely lake ** There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, Are painted on its glassy floor. The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, The snowy mountain-tops which lie Piled coldly up against the sky. SEBAGO LAKE I// Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak, Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. Yet green are Saco's banks below, And belts of spruce and cedar show, Dark fringing round those cones of snow. The earth hath felt the breath of spring, Though yet on her deliverer's wing The lingering frosts of winter cling. Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, And mildly from its sunny nooks The blue eye of the violet looks. And odors from the springing grass, The sweet birch and the sassafras, Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. Her tokens of renewing care Hath Nature scattered everywhere, In bud and flower, and warmer air. But in their hour of bitterness, What reck the broken Sokokis, Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ? The turf's red stain is yet undried, Scarce have the death-shot echoes died Along Sebago's wooded side: NEW ENGLAND And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkly, where a swell of land Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. Fire and the ax have swept it bare, Save one lone beech, unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air. With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, They break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root. They heave the stubborn trunk aside, The firm roots from the earth divide, The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. And there the fallen chief is laid, In tassel ed garbs of skins arrayed, And girded with his wampum-braid. The silver cross he loved is pressed Beneath the heavy arms, which rest Upon his scarfed and naked breast. 'Tis done: the roots are backward sent, The beechen-tree stands up unbent, The Indian's fitting monument ! ***** John Greenleaf Whittier. SONGO RIVER 179 Songo River <^> *^> ^> <^x *o <^y "O Connecting Lake Sebago and Long Lake TVTOWHERE such a devious stream, * ^ Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake, Links together lake and lake. Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow. Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude. Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about. In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene. 180 NEW ENGLAND Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies. Silent stream ! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou bidest here alone, Well content to be unknown. But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise. Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveler on his way: "Traveler, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet ! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste ! "Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. CASCO BAY l8l From The Ranger <^ <^> <^> (Casco Bay) TVTOWHERE fairer, sweeter, rarer, * ^ Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer Through his painted woodlands stray, Than where hillside oaks and beeches Overlook the long, blue reaches, Silver coves and pebbled beaches, And green isles of Casco Bay; Nowhere day, for delay, With a tenderer look beseeches, "Let me with my charmed earth stay." On the grainlands of the mainlands Stands the serried corn like train-bands, Plume and pennon rustling gay; Out at sea, the islands wooded, Silver birches, golden-hooded, Set with maples, crimson-blooded, White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, Stretch away, far away. Dim and dreamy, over-brooded By the hazy autumn day. Gayly chattering to the clattering Of the brown nuts downward pattering, Leap the squirrels, red and gray. 1 82 NEW ENGLAND On the grass-land, on the fallow, Drop the apples, red and yellow; Drop the russet pears and mellow, Drop the red leaves all the day, And away, swift away, Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow Chasing, weave their web of play. John Greenleaf Whittier. My Lost Youth *^x <^> <^. ^ -o> < (Portland) TEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. PORTLAND 183 And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea- tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: ''A boy's will is the -wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 1 84 NEW ENGLAND I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide ! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. PORTLAND 185 And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." l86 NEW ENGLAND And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A-boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Dead Ship of Harpswell ^ <^x < (From The Tent on the Beach) (Harpswell) \ \ 7HAT flecks the outer gray beyond * v The sundown's golden trail ? The white flash of a sea-bird's wing, Or gleam of slanting sail ? Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point, And sea-worn elders pray, The ghost of what was once a ship Is sailing up the bay ! From gray sea-fog, from icy drift, From peril and from pain, The home-bound fisher greets thy lights, O hundred-harbored Maine ! HARPS WELL 187 But many a keel shall seaward turn, And many a sail outstand, When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms Against the dusk of land. She rounds the headland's bristling pines; She threads the isle-set bay; No spur of breeze can speed her on, Nor ebb of tide delay. Old men still walk the Isle of Orr Who tell her date and name, Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards Who hewed her oaken frame. What weary doom of baffled quest, Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine? What makes thee in the haunts of home A wonder and a sign ? No fort is on thy silent deck, Upon thy helm no hand; No ripple hath the soundless wind That smites thee from the land ! For never comes the ship to port, Howe'er the breeze may be; Just when she nears the waiting shore She drifts again to sea. 1 88 NEW ENGLAND No tack of sail, nor turn of helm, Nor sheer of veering side; Stern-fore she drives to sea and night, Against the wind and tide. In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star Of evening guides her in; In vain for her the lamps are lit Within thy tower, Seguin ! In vain the harbor-boat shall hail, In vain the pilot call; No hand shall reef her spectral sail, Or let her anchor fall. Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy, Your gray-head hints of ill; And, over sick-beds whispering low, Your prophecies fulfil. Some home amid yon birchen trees Shall drape its doors with woe; And slowly where the Dead Ship sails, The burial boat shall row ! From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point, From island and from main, From sheltered cove and tided creek, Shall glide the funeral train. HARPS WELL 189 The dead-boat with the bearers four, The mourners at her stern, And one shall go the silent way Who shall no more return ! And men shall sigh, and women weep, Whose dear ones pale and pine, And sadly over sunset seas Await the ghostly sign. They know not that its sails are filled By pity's tender breath, Nor see the Angel at the helm Who steers the Ship of Death! "Chill as a down-east breeze should be," The Book-man said. "A ghostly touch The legend has. I'm glad to see Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch." "Well, here is something of the sort Which one midsummer day I caught In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish." "We wait," the Traveler said; "serve hot or cold your dish." John Greenleaf Whittier. 190 NEW ENGLAND From Mogg Megone <^> *z> <^ (Penobscot Bay) R eastward o'er the lovely bay, Penobscot's clustered wigwams lay; And gently from that Indian town The verdant hillside slopes adown, To where the sparkling waters play Upon the yellow sands below; And shooting round the winding shores Of narrow capes, and isles which lie Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, With birchen boat and glancing oars, The red men to their fishing go; While from their planting ground is borne The treasure of the golden corn, By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow Wild through the locks which o'er 'them flow. The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, Watching the huskers, with a smile For each full ear which swells the pile; And the old chief, who nevermore May bend the bow or pull the oar, Smokes gravely in his wigwam door, Or slowly shapes, with ax of stone, The arrow-head from flint and bone. Beneath the westward turning eye A thousand wooded islands lie, PENOBSCOT BAY IQI Gems of the waters ! with each hue Of brightness set in ocean's blue. Each bears aloft its tuft of trees Touched by the pencil of the frost, And, with the motion of each breeze, A moment seen, a moment lost, Changing and blent, confused and tossed, The brighter with the darker crossed Their thousand tints of beauty glow Down in the restless waves below, And tremble in the sunny skies, As if, from waving bough to bough, Flitted the birds of paradise. There sleep Placentia's group, and there Pere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer; And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff, On which the Father's hut is seen, The Indian stays his rocking skiff, And peers the hemlock-boughs between, Half trembling, as he seeks to look Upon the Jesuit's Cross and Book. There, gloomily against the sky The Dark Isles rear their summits high; And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare, Lifts its gray turrets in the air, Seen from afar, like some stronghold Built by the ocean kings of old; And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin, Swells in the north vast Katahdin: NEW ENGLAND And, wandering from its marshy feet, The broad Penobscot comes to meet And mingle with his own bright bay. Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods, Arched over by the ancient woods, Which Time, in those dim solitudes, Wielding the dull ax of Decay, Alone hath ever shorn away. John Greenleaf Whittier. A Maine Trail (Deer Isle) follow, heart upon your sleeve, The trail, ateasing by, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Trim barns and farm-house shy, Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, Through pastures bare and wild, Oh come let's fare to the heart-o-the-wood With the faith of a little child. Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, DEER ISLE 193 By bouldered brook to the hidden spring Where breath of ferns blows sweet And swift birds break the silence as Their shadows cross your feet. Stout-hearted thrust through gold green copse To garner the woodland glee, To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sunspun ecstasy; 'Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, 'Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens! how the Lord Himself loves green ! Such sun! how He loves the gold! Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft ! The sumptuous paven moss Is spread for Dryads' sleep; And list ten thousand thousand spruce Lift up their voice to God We can a little understand, Born of the self-same sod. Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on, Their guests are we to-day; Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, Gay mushrooms mark the way; 194 NEW ENGLAND The silence is a courtesy, The well-bred calm of kings; Come haste ! the hour sets its face Unto great Happenings. Gertrude Huntington McGiffert. To a Pine Tree <^> <^> <^> <^y <^> < (Mount Katahdin) "C\\R up on Katahdin thou towerest, * Purple-blue with the distance and vast; Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, To its fall leaning awful. In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, Thou singest and tossest thy branches; Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, Thou forebodest the dread avalanches, When whole mountains swoop valeward. In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring From the city beneath him. MOUNT KATAHDIN 195 To the slumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, Till he longs to be swung mid their booming In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, Whose finned isles are their cattle. For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, With mad hand crashing melody frantic, While he pours forth his mighty desire To leap down on the eager Atlantic, Whose arms stretch to his playmate. The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, Preying thence on the continent under; Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches, There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder, Growling low with impatience. Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, Lusty father of Titans past number ! The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, And thee mantling with silence. Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter, And then plunge down the muffled abysses In the quiet of midnight. 196 NEW ENGLAND Thou alone know'st the glory of summer, Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest, On thy subjects that send a proud murmur Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest From thy bleak throne to heaven. James Russell Lowell. From Mogg Megone *z> ^> (Norridgewock) "T*IS morning over Norridgewock, On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred At intervals by breeze and bird, And wearing all the hues which glow In heaven's own pure and perfect bow, That glorious picture of the air, Which summer's light-robed angel forms On the dark ground of fading storms, With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, And, stretching out, on either hand, O'er all that wide and unshorn land, Till, weary of its gorgeousness, The aching and the dazzled eye Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! The oak, upon the windy hill, Its dark green burthen upward heaves; THE MERRIMAC RIVER 197 The hemlock broods above its rill, Its cone-like foliage darker still, Against the birch's graceful stem, And the rough walnut-bough receives The sun upon its crowded leaves, Each colored like a topaz gem; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal, which autumn gives, The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year ! John Greenleaf Whittier. NEW HAMPSHIRE The Merrimac -^ <^> <^> ^> <^> ^ (Portsmouth) "ER fingers shame the ivory keys They dance so light along; The bloom upon her parted lips Is sweeter than the song. H 1 O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles ! Her thoughts are not of thee; She better loves the salted wind, The voices of the sea. 202 NEW ENGLAND Her heart is like an outbound ship That at its anchor swings; The murmur of the stranded shell Is in the song she sings. She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, But dreams the while of one Who watches from his sea-blown deck The icebergs in the sun. She questions all the winds that blow, And every fog-wreath dim, And bids the sea-birds flying north Bear messages to him. She speeds them with the thanks of men He periled life to save, And grateful prayers like holy oil To smooth for him the wave. Brown Viking of the fishing-smack ! Fair toast of all the town ! The skipper's jerkin ill beseems The lady's silken gown ! But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear For him the blush of shame Who dares to set his manly gifts Against her ancient name. PORTSMOUTH 203 The stream is brightest at its spring, And blood is not like wine; Nor honored less than he who heirs Is he who founds a line. Full lightly shall the prize be won, If love be Fortune's spur; And never maiden stoops to him Who lifts himself to her. Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, With stately stairways worn By feet of old Colonial knights And ladies gentle-born. Still green about its ample porch The English ivy twines, Trained back to show in English oak The herald's carven signs. And on her, from the wainscot old, Ancestral faces frown, And this has worn the soldier's sword, And that the judge's gown. But, strong of will and proud as they, She walks the gallery floor As if she trod her sailor's deck By stormy Labrador ! 204 NEW ENGLAND The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, And green are Elliot's bowers; Her garden is the pebbled beach, The mosses are her flowers. She looks across the harbor-bar To see the white gulls fly; His greeting from the Northern sea Is in their clanging cry. She hums a song, and dreams that he, As in its romance old, Shall homeward ride with silken sails And masts of beaten gold ! Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair, And high and low mate ill; But love has never known a law Beyond its own sweet will ! John Greenleaf Whittier. Lady Wentworth <^x ^> <^y <^> <^ (Pcrlsmouth) hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, PORTSMOUTH 2O5 Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. Above her head, resplendent on the sign, The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime, And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet, and to declare The passion that had driven him to despair. For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl, Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, A creature men would worship and adore, Though now in mean habiliments she bore A pail of water, dripping, through the street, And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 206 NEW ENGLAND It was a pretty picture, full of grace, The slender form, the delicate, thin face; The swaying motion, as she hurried by; The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: And with uncommon feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: "O Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you go About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied : "No matter how I look; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma'am." And on the child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, As with her heavy burden she passed on, Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, The silver harness glittering in the sun, Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, While all alone within the chariot sat A portly person with three-cornered hat, PORTSMOUTH 2O/ A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, A goodly place, where it was good to be. It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in its style; Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew Made mournful music the whole winter through. Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Reveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs; Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. 208 NEW ENGLAND Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt, A widower and childless; and he felt The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, That like a presence haunted every room; For though not given to weakness, he could feel The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. The years came and the years went, seven in all, And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall; The dawns their splendor through its chambers shed, The sunsets flushed its western windows red; The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again; Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not wholly unobserved: By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through; A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, A servant who made service seem divine ! Through her each room was fair to look upon; The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, PORTSMOUTH 2OQ The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was brighter than before. And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of Time, that never for an hour stands still, Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. The robin, the forerunner of the spring, The bluebird with his jocund caroling, The restless swallows building in the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday ! He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in everything. He had invited all his friends and peers, The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest; For why repeat the name of every guest ? But I must mention one, in bands and gown, The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown Of the Established Church; with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said grace; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I e'er knew. When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, 210 NEW ENGLAND Who disappeared, and presently there stood Within the room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty ! Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there Until the Governor, rising from his chair, Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: "This is my birthday: it shall likewise be My wedding-day; and you shall marry me ! " The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector, who replied: " Marry you ? Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency; but to whom ? I ask." The Governor answered: "To this lady here; v And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried: "This is the lady; do you hesitate ? Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." ISLES OF SHOALS 211 The rector read the service loud and clear: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," And so on to the end. At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Pictures from Appledore (Isles of Shoals) A HEAP of bare and splintery crags ^r~ Tumbled about by lightning and frost, With rifts and chasms and storm-bleached jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost; No island, but rather the skeleton Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten one, Where, aeons ago, with half-shut eye, The sluggish saurian crawled to die, Gasping under titanic ferns; Ribs of rock that seaward jut, Granite shoulders and boulders and snags, Round which, though the winds in heaven be shut, The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns, Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns, And the dreary black seaweed lolls and wags; 212 NEW ENGLAND Only rock from shore to shore, Only a moan through the bleak clefts blown, With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp shifts, Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting, And under all a deep, dull roar, Dying and swelling, forevermore, Rock and moan and roar alone, And the dread of some nameless thing unknown, These make Appledore. These make Appledore by night: Then there are monsters left and right; Every rock is a different monster; All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, When you waked at night because you screamed, There they lie for half a mile, Jumbled together in a pile, And (though you know they never once stir), If you look long, they seem to be moving Just as plainly as plain can be, Crushing and crowding, wading and shoving Out into the awful sea, Where you can hear them snort and spout With pauses between, as if they were listening, Then tumult anon when the surf breaks glistening In the blackness where they wallow about. ii All this you would scarcely comprehend, Should you see the isle on a sunny day; ISLES OF SHOALS 213 Then it is simple enough in its way, Two rocky bulges, one at each end, With a smaller bulge and a hollow between ; Patches of whortleberry and bay; Accidents of open green, Sprinkled with loose slabs square and gray, Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few Unsocial thistles; an elder or two, Foamed over with blossoms white as spray; And on the whole island never a tree Save a score of sumachs, high as your knee, That crouch in hollows where they may, (The cellars where once stood a village, men say,) Huddling for warmth, and never grew Tall enough for a peep at the sea; A general dazzle of open blue; A breeze always blowing and playing rat-tat With the bow of the ribbon round your hat; A score of sheep that do nothing but stare Up and down' at you everywhere; Three or four cattle that chew the cud Lying about in a listless despair; A medrick that makes you look overhead With short, sharp scream, as he sights his prey, And, dropping straight and swift as lead, Splits the water with sudden thud; This is Appledore by day. 214 NEW ENGLAND III Away northeast is Boone Island light; You might mistake it for a ship, Only it stands too plumb upright, And like the others does not slip Behind the sea's unsteady brink; Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip Upon it a moment, 'twill suddenly sink, Leveled and lost in the darkened main, Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. On the mainland you see a misty camp Of mountains pitched tumultuously: That one looming so long and large Is Saddleback, and that point you see Over yon low and rounded marge, Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe Laid over his breast, is Ossipee; That shadow there may be Kearsarge; That must be Great Haystack ; Hove these names, Wherewith the lonely farmer tames Nature to mute companionship With his own mind's domestic mood, And strives the surly world to clip In the arms of familiar habitude. 'Tis well he could not contrive to make A Saxon of Agamenticus: He glowers there to the north of us, ISLES OF SHOALS 215 Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to take The white man's baptism or his ways. Him first on shore the coaster divines Through the early gray, and sees him shake The morning mist from his scalp-lock of pines; Him first the skipper makes out in the west, Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots tremulous, Plashing with orange the palpitant lines Of mutable billow, crest after crest, And murmurs Agamenticus ! As if it were the name of a saint. But is that a mountain playing cloud, Or a cloud playing mountain, just there, so faint ? Look along over the low right shoulder Of Agamenticus into that crowd Of brassy thunderheads behind it; Now you have caught it, but, ere you are older By half an hour, you will lose it, and find it A score of times; while you look 'tis gone, And, just as you've given it up,- anon It is there again, till your weary eyes Fancy they see it waver and rise, With its brother clouds; it is Agiochook, There if you seek not, and gone if you look, Ninety miles off as the eagle flies. 2l6 NEW ENGLAND How looks Appledore in a storm ? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the mad Atlantic, When surge on surge would heap enorme Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, That lifted and lifted, and then let go A great white avalanche of thunder, A grinding, blinding, deafening ire Monadnock might have trembled under; And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibers racked, As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, And to rise again snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap. North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies, ISLES OF SHOALS 217 A row of pillars still and white, That glimmer, and then are out of sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light, The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the lighthouse slim and lone; And whenever the weight of ocean is thrown Full and far on White Island head, A great mist-jotun you will see Lifting himself up silently High and huge o'er the lighthouse top, With hands of wavering spray outspread, Groping after the little tower, That seems to shrink and shorten and cower, Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, And silently and fruitlessly He sinks again into the sea. You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, Awaken once more to the rush and roar, 2l8 NEW ENGLAND And on the rock-point tighten your hand, As you turn and see a valley deep, That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all, Or watch the silenter, steal thier seas Feeling their way to you more and more; If they once should clutch you high as the knees, They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help; And such in a storm is Appledore. James Russell Lowell. The Spaniards' Graves at the Isles of Shoals (Isles of Shoals) SAILORS, did sweet eyes look after you, The day you sailed away from sunny Spain ? Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew, Melting in tender rain ? Did no one dream of that drear night to be, Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow, When, on yon granite point that frets the sea, The ship met her death-blow ? Fifty long years ago these sailors died: None know how many sleep beneath the waves; ISLES OF SHOALS 219 Fourteen gray headstones, rising side by side, Point out their nameless graves, Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me, And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry, And sadder winds, and voices of the sea That moans perpetually. Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain Questioned the distance for the yearning sail, That, leaning landward, should have stretched again White arms wide on the gale, To bring back their beloved. Year by year, Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed, And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near, And hope was dead at last. Still summer broods o'er that delicious land, Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow: Live any yet of that forsaken band Who loved so long ago ? O Spanish women, over the far seas, Could I but show you where your dead repose ! Could I send tidings on this northern breeze, That strong and steady blows ! 220 NEW ENGLAND Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet These you have lost, but you can never know One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet With thinking of your woe ! Celia Thaxter. Piscataqua River <^> "Q> ^ ^> <^> ^HOU singest by the gleaming isles, By woods, and fields of corn, Thou singest, and the heaven smiles Upon my birthday morn. But I within a city, I, So full of vague unrest, Would almost give my life to lie An hour upon thy breast ! To let the wherry listless go, And, wrapt in dreamy joy, Dip, and surge idly to and fro, Like the red harbor-buoy; To sit in happy indolence, To rest upon the oars, And catch the heavy earthy scents That blow from summer shores; To see the rounded sun go down, And with its parting fires BEARCAMP RIVER 221 Light up the windows of the town And burn the tapering spires; And then to hear the muffled tolls From steeples slim and white, And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, The Beacon's orange light. O River ! flowing to the main Through woods, and fields of corn, Hear thou my longing and my pain This sunny birthday morn; And take this song which sorrow shapes To music like thine own, And sing it to the cliffs and capes And crags where I am known ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Sunset on the Bearcamp ^y <^> ^> (Bear camp River) A GOLD fringe on the purpling hem ** Of hills, the river runs, As down its long, green valleys falls The last of summer's suns. Along its tawny gravel-bed, Broad-flowing, swift, and still, As if its meadow levels felt The hurry of the hill, 222 NEW ENGLAND Noiseless between its banks of green, From curve to curve it slips: The drowsy maple-shadows rest Like fingers on its lips. A waif from Carroll's wildest hills, Unstoried and unknown; The ursine legend of its name Prowls on its banks alone. Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn As ever Yarrow knew, Or, under rainy Irish skies, By Spenser's Mulla grew; And through the gaps of leaning trees Its mountain-cradle shows, The gold against the amethyst, The green against the rose. Touched by a light that hath no name, A glory never sung, Aloft on sky and mountain-wall Are God's great pictures hung. How changed the summits vast and old No longer granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist; the rock Is softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no leaf Of all its elms is twirled: The silence of eternity Seems falling on the world. BEARCAMP RIVER 223 The pause before the breaking seals Of mystery is this: Yon miracle-play of night and day Makes dumb its witnesses. What unseen altar crowns the hills That reach up stair on stair ? What eyes look through, what white wings fan These purple veils of air ? What Presence from the heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down ? Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown ! Slow fades the vision of the sky; The golden water pales; And over all the valley-land A gray-winged vapor sails. I go the common way of all: The sunset-fires will burn, The flowers will blow, the river flow, When I no more return. No whisper from the mountain-pine Nor lapsing stream shall tell The stranger, treading where I tread, Of him who loved them well. John Greenleaf Whittier. 224 NEW ENGLAND From The Bridal of Pennacook (The White Mountains) "\ "\ 7"E had been wandering for many days ** Through the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud, Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake Of Winnipiseogee; and had felt The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles Which stoop their summer beauty to. the lips Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall Is piled to heaven; and, through the narrow rift Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar, Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind Comes burdened with the everlasting moan Of forests and of far-off waterfalls, We had looked upward where the summer sky, Tasseled with clouds light-woven by the sun, Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed The high source of the Saco; and bewildered In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud, The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atop Of old Agiochook had seen the mountains CHOCORUA 225 Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick As meadow mole-hills, the far sea of Casco, A white gleam on the horizon of the east; Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills; Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun ! And we had rested underneath the oaks Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken By the perpetual beating of the falls Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked The winding Pemigewasset, overhung By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, Or lazily gliding through its intervals, From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines, Like a great Indian camp-fire; and its beams At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver The Merrimac by Uncanoonuc's falls. John Greenleaf Whittier. Chocorua <^y *^x <^x ^> ' I "HE pioneer of a great company * That wait behind him, gazing toward the east, Mighty ones all, down to the nameless least, 226 NEW ENGLAND Though after him none dares to press, where he With bent head listens to the minstrelsy Of far waves chanting to the moon, their priest. What phantom rises up from winds deceased ? What whiteness of the unapproachable sea ? Hoary Chocorua guards his mystery well: He pushes back his fellows, lest they hear The haunting secret he apart must tell To his lone self, in the sky-silence clear. A shadowy, cloud-cloaked wraith, with shoulders bowed, He steals, conspicuous, from the mountain-crowd. Lucy Larcom. Clouds on Whiteface <^> <^> -Q> ^ ^> (White jace Mountain) lovingly the clouds caress his head, The mountain- monarch ; he, severe and hard, With white face set like flint horizon- ward; They weaving softest fleece of gold and red, And gossamer of airiest silver thread, To wrap his form, wind-beaten, thunder-scarred. They linger tenderly, and fain would stay, Since he, earth-rooted, may not float away. He upward looks, but moves not; wears their hues; Draws them unto himself; their beauty shares; PEMIGEWASSET RIVER 227 And sometimes his own semblance seems to lose, His grandeur and their grace so interfuse; And when his angels leave him unawares, A sullen rock, his brow to heaven he bares. Lucy Larcom. My Mountain <^> ^ <^> <^> (Pemigewasset River) SHUT my eyes in the snow-fall And dream a dream of the hills. The sweep of a host of mountains, The flash of a hundred rills, I For a moment they crowd my vision; Then, moving in troops along, They leave me one still mountain-picture, The murmur of one river's song. 'Tis the musical Pemigewasset, That sings to the hemlock-trees Of the pines on the Profile Mountain, Of the stony Face that sees, Far down in the vast rock-hollows The waterfall of the Flume, The blithe cascade of 'the Basin, And the deep Pool's lonely gloom. 228 NEW ENGLAND All night, from the cottage-window I can hear the river's tune; But the hushed air gives no answer Save the hemlock's sullen rune. A lamb's bleat breaks through the stillness, And into the heart of night. Afar and around, the mountains, Veiled watchers, expect the light. Then up comes the radiant morning To smile on their vigils grand; Still muffled in cloudy mantles Do their stately ranges stand ? It is not the lofty Haystacks Piled up by the great Notch-Gate, Nor the glow of the Cannon Mountain, That the Dawn and I await, To loom out of northern vapors; But a shadow, a penciled line, That grows to an edge of opal Where earth-light and heaven-light shine. Now rose-tints bloom from the purple; Now the blue climbs over the green; Now, bright in its bath of sunshine, The whole grand Shape is seen. PEMIGEWASSET RIVER Is it one, or unnumbered summits, The Vision so high, so fair, Hanging over the singing River In the magical depths of air ? Ask not the name of my mountain ! Let it rise in its grandeur lone; Be it one of a mighty thousand, Or a thousand blent in one. Would a name evoke new splendor From its wrapping and folds of light, Or a line of the weird rock-writing Make plainer to mortal sight? You have lived and learnt this marvel: That the holiest joy that came From its beautiful heaven to bless you, Nor needed nor found a name. Enough, on the brink of the river Looking up and away, to know That the Hill loves the Pemigewasset. And broods o'er its murmurous flow. Perhaps, if the Campton meadows Should attract your pilgrim feet Up the summer road to the mountains, You may chance my dream to meet: 229 230 NEW ENGLAND Either mine, or one more wondrous. Or perhaps you will look, and say You behold only rocks and sunshine, Be it dying or birth of day. Though you find but the stones that build it, I shall see through the snow-fall still, Hanging over the Pemigewasset, My glorified, dream-crowned Hill. Lucy Larcom. From Comrades l <^y <^ <^x ^> ^> ^> (Read at the Sixtieth Annual Convention of the Psi Upsilon Frater- nity at Dartmouth College, Hanover, N. H., May 18, 1893.) Again among the hills ! The shaggy hills ! The clear arousing air comes like a call Of bugle notes across the pines, and thrills My heart as if a hero had just spoken. Again among the hills ! The jubilant unbroken Long dreaming of the hills ! Far off, Ascutney smiles as one at peace; And over all The golden sunlight pours and fills The hollow of the earth, like a god's joy. Again among the hills ! The tranquil hills 1 Reprinted by permission of Small, Maynard & Company Inc., Pub- lishers. HANOVER 231 That took me as a boy And filled my spirit with the silences ! indolent, far-reaching hills, that lie Secure in your own strength, and take your ease Like careless giants 'neath the summer sky What is it to you, O hills, That anxious men should take thought for the morrow ? What has your might to do with thought or sorrow Or cark and cumber of conflicting wills ? Lone Pine, that thron'st thyself upon the height, Aloof and kingly, overlooking all, Yet uncompanioned, with the Day and Night For pageant and the winds for festival ! 1 was thy minion once, and now renew Mine ancient fealty To that which shaped me still remaining true, And through allegiance only growing free. So with no foreign nor oblivious heart, Dartmouth, I seek once more thy granite seat; Nor only of thy hills I feel me part, But each encounter of the village street, The ball-players on the campus, and their shouting, The runners lithe and fleet, The noisy groups of idlers, and the songs, The laughter and the flouting 232 NEW ENGLAND Spectacled comic unrelated beings With book in hand, Who 'mid all stir of life, all whirl of rhythms, All strivings, lovings, kissings, dreamings, seeings Still live apart in some strange land Of aorists and ohms and logarithms All these are mine; I greet them with a shout. Whether they will or no, they greet me too. Grave teachers and the students' jocund rout, Class-room and tennis court, alike they knew My step once, and they cannot shut me out. But dearer than the silence of the hills, And greater than the wisdom of the years, Is man to man, indifferent of ills, Triumphant over fears, To meet the world with loyal hearts that need No witness of their friendship but the deed. Such comrades they, the gallant Musketeers, Wrought by the master- workman of Romance, Who foiled the crafty Cardinal and saved A Queen for episode, who braved The utmost malice of mischance, The utmost enmity of human foes, But still rode on across the fields of France, Reckless of knocks and blows, Careless of sins or woes, Incurious of each other's hearts, but sure That each for each would vanquish or endure. HANOVER 233 Praise be to you, O hills, that you can breathe Into our souls the secret of your power ! He is no child of yours, he never knew Your spirit were he born beneath Your highest crags who bears not every hour The might, the calm of you About him, that sublime Unconsciousness of all things great, Built on himself to stand the shocks of Time And scarred not shaken by the bolts of Fate. And praise to thee, my college, that the lore Of ages may be pondered at thy feet ! That for thy sons each sage and seer of yore His runes may still repeat ! Praise that thou givest to us understanding To wring from the world's heart New answers to new doubts to make the landing On shores that have no chart ! Praise for the glory of knowing, And greater glory of the power to know ! Praise for the faith that doubts would overthrow, And which through doubts to larger faith is growing ! The sons of science are a wrangling throng, Yet through their labor what the sons of song Have wrought in clay, at last In the bronze is cast, And wind and rain no more can work it wrong. 234 NEW ENGLAND But more than strength and more than truth Oh praise the love of man and man ! Praise it for pledge of our eternal youth ! Praise it for pulse of that great gush that ran Through all the worlds, when He Who made them clapped his hands for glee, And laughed Love down the cycles of the stars. Praise all that plants it in the hearts of men, All that protects it from the hoof that mars, The weed that stifles; praise the rain That rains upon it and the sun that shines, Till it stretch skyward with its laden vines ! Richard Hovey. Monadnock from Afar <^x <^> <^x <^> (Ml. Monadnock) "T^ARK flower of Cheshire garden, ^-* Red evening duly dyes Thy sombre head with rosy hues To fix far-gazing eyes. Well the Planter knew how strongly Works thy form on human thought; I muse what secret purpose had he To draw all fancies to this spot. Ralph Waldo Emerson. MONADNOCK 235 From Monadnock <^> <^> <^> |N the summit as I stood, O'er the floor of plain and flood Seemed to me, the towering hill Was not altogether still, But a quiet sense conveyed; If I err not, thus it said: "Many feet in summer seek, 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. And comest thou To see strange forests and new snow, And tread uplifted land ? And leavest thou thy lowland race, Here amid clouds to stand ? 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, At the burning Lyre, Nearing me, With its stars of northern fire, In many a thousand years ? 236 NEW ENGLAND " Every morn I lift my head, See New England underspread, 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, Shall string Monadnock like a bead." ***** Ralph Waldo Emerson. VERMONT The Green Mountains <^> ^> ^ <^> <^> <^x (Sunderland) 'T'URN again into the wooded Hollow, *- By the fabled Tory-hunter's well, Where the strange and bookish Oldenburys On their wasted patrimony dwell. Rowland plows to the sound of Celia's fiddle: Celia sews with her Milton on her knee; Young Miranda goes forth to gather berries Singing the song of Ariel by the sea. When the dusk falls downward from the landslide, Through the bush they drive the cattle home; They see the shadows of the first Crusaders, And hear the Sibyl at the gates of Rome. In the northward, in the southward village Brisk steps hasten, the busy hours fly fast; But the clocks are slow in Oldenbury Hollow, Where they chime with the voices of the past. Sarah N. Cleghorn. 238 NEW ENGLAND From Ticonderoga ^> ^> <^> < (Lake Cham plain) II Who glide so dim upon the lake Ticonderoga ? Over their dreaming prow The morning star Blazes their goal; but now More dusk and far What old world dwindles in their wake, Ticonderoga ? HTHE fleur-de-lis, the fleur-de-lis! -* The white Chevalier lo, 'tis he ! His pale canoe along the tide The painted Huron paddles guide With dumb, subdued elation; The wild dawn stains their bodies bare, The wild dawn gleams about his hair; Steeped in his soul's adventure, lie The valleys of discovery The peaks of expectation. Midway the lake they pause: on high His arm he raises solemnly. Above the lilies, that emboss His azure banner, and the pied Algonquin plumes that float beside, He holds the shining cross. "Champlain ! " The placid word The mute air hath not stirred. LAKE CHAMPLAIN 239 Touched by the morning's wing, The ruddied waters, quickening, Alone are kindled by that christening. Quaint splendors mass Within the lake's clear glass, And liquid lilies run In rose gules of the rising sun. Naught else there of acclaim Greets the great Chevalier's name, Save where the water-fowl's primeval broods Awake Bulwagga's lone and echoing solitudes. in What strident horror breaks thy spell, Ticonderoga ? What long and ululating yell ? The Iroquois: in covert glade They build their pine-bough palisade, And weave in trance Their sachem dance With hawk-screams of their heathen wars, Till naked on my shrilling shores Mohawk and wild Algonquin meet And taunt, with fleer and blown conceit, Each other's painted ranks: But, lo where now their flanks Give way and reel ! And 'mid the silent sagamores, 240 NEW ENGLAND In shining cuish and casque of steel, Before them all Stands bright and tall, With gauntlet clenched and helmet vised, The calm knight-errant of the Christ; Then, in sign miraculous, Levels his arquebus And, charged with bullets from his bandoleer, Looses the bolt of preternatural thunder. A sachem falls: the wild men stare in wonder And mazed fear; Once more his engine peals, and hurls the fire Whose flash shall kindle continents to ire. ***** Percy MacKaye. RHODE ISLAND A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal 1 ^> ^> (Rhode Island) F SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright, The many-colored flame, and played and leaped, I thought of rainbows and the Northern Light, Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, And other brilliant matters of the sort. 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. RHODE ISLAND 241 At last I thought of that fair isle which sent The mineral fuel; on a summer day I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way; Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone, A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew The deep-worn path, and, horror-struck, I thought Where will this dreary passage lead me to ? This long, dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot ? I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked, but saw a far more welcome sight. Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, At once a lovely isle before me lay; Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er, As if just risen from its calm inland bay; Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. The barley was just reaped, its heavy sheaves Lay on the stubble field, the tall maize stood Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves, And bright the sunlight played on the young wood, 242 NEW ENGLAND For fifty years ago, the old men say, The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. I saw where fountains freshened the green land, And where the pleasant road, from door to door With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, Went wandering all that fertile region o'er, Rogue's Island once, but, when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead. Beautiful island! then it only seemed A lovely stranger, it has grown a friend. I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed How soon that bright beneficent isle would send The treasures of its womb across the sea, To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; But now thou art come forth to move the earth, And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. Yea, they did wrong thee foully, they who mocked Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; RHODE ISLAND 243 Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, And grew profane, and swore, in bitter scorn, That men might to thy inner caves retire, And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, That I too have seen greatness, even I, Shook hands with Adams, stared at La Fayette, When, bareheaded, in the hot noon of July, He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. And I have seen not many months ago An eastern governor in chapeau bras And military coat, a glorious show ! Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan i How many hands were shook and votes were won ! 'Twas a great governor, thou too shalt be Great in thy turn, and wide shall spread thy fame, And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. 244 NEW ENGLAND For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat The hissing rivers into steam, and drive Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, Walking their steady way, as if alive, Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, Like its own monsters, boats that for a guinea Will take a man to Havre, and shalt be The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. Then we will laugh at Winter when we hear The grim old churl about our dwellings rave; Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. William Cullen Bryant. The Skeleton in Armor <^> (Newport) " CPEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! ^ Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me ! NEWPORT 245 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me ? " Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. "I was a Viking old ! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee ! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee. "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 246 NEW ENGLAND That the poor, whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. "Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led, Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. "Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. NEWPORT 247 "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. "Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, 248 . NEW ENGLAND And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen ! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; NEWPORT 249 And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death ! was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter ! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, 250 NEW ENGLAND Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another ! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful ! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, 0, death was grateful ! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal ! to the Northland ! skoal ! " Thus the tale ended. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. NEWPORT 251 A Newport Romance ^> *o> <^> <^x <^x HPHEY say that she died of a broken heart * (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me) ; But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea. Her lover was fickle and fine and French: It was nearly a hundred years ago When he sailed away from her arms poor wench With the Admiral Rochambeau. I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, At what golden-laced speech of those modish days She listened the mischief take her ! But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed And faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled. Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea. 252 NEW ENGLAND And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room, And the air is filled that she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume. The delicate odor of mignonette, The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet, Is all that tells of her story; yet Could she think of a sweeter way ? I sit in the sad old house to-night, Myself a ghost from a farther sea; And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me. For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still. Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; And there is no sound in the sad old house, But the long veranda dripping with dew, And in the wainscot a mouse. The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astray In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way. NEWPORT 253 Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret ? But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odor of mignonette ! I open the window, and seem almost So still lies the ocean to hear the beat Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat. In my neighbor's windows the gas-lights flare, As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss; And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house. And no odor of mignonette there is But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; And mayhap from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend is bora. But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past. And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains. 254 NEW ENGLAND And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless forevermore. But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night ! Bret Harte. The Romance of a Rose <^> ^> ^> ^> (Newport) ""PIS nearly a hundred years ago, * Since the day that the Count de Rocham- beau Our ally against the British crown Met Washington in Newport town. 'Twas the month of March, and the air was chill, But bareheaded over Aquidneck hill, Guest and host they took their way, While on either side was the grand array Of a gallant army, French and fine, Ranged three deep in a glittering line; And the French fleet sent a welcome roar Of a hundred guns from Conanicut shore. NEWPORT 255 And the bells rang out from every steeple, And from street to street the Newport people Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, De Rochambeau and his honored guest. And women out of the windows leant, And out of the Windows smiled and sent Many a coy admiring glance To the fine young officers of France. And the story goes, that the belle of the town Kissed a rose and flung it down Straight at the feet of De Rochambeau; And the gallant marshal, bending low, Lifted it up with a Frenchman's grace, And kissed it back, with a glance at the face Of the daring maiden where she stood, Blushing out of her silken hood. That night at the ball, still the story goes, The Marshal of France wore a faded rose In his gold-laced coat; but he looked in vain For the giver's beautiful face again. Night after night and day after day The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, At feast, or at church, or along the street, For the girl who flung her rose at his feet. 256 NEW ENGLAND And she, night after night, day after day, Was speeding farther and farther away From the fatal window, the fatal street, Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat A throb too much for the cool control A Puritan teaches to heart and soul; A throb too much for the wrathful eyes Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise From the street below; and taking the gauge Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage, He swore, this old colonial squire, That before the daylight should expire, This daughter of his, with her wit and grace, And her dangerous heart and her beautiful face, Should be on her way to a sure retreat, Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet Of a cursed Frenchman, high or low; And so while the Count de Rochambeau In his gold-laced coat wore a faded flower, And awaited the giver hour by hour, She was sailing away in the wild March night On the little deck of the sloop Delight; Guarded even in the darkness there By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. NEWPORT 257 Three weeks after, a brig bore down Into the harbor of Newport town, Towing a wreck, 'twas the sloop Delight, Off Hampton rocks, in the very sight Of the land she sought, she and her crew And all on board of her, full in view Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, Went to their doom on that April day. When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale, He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale; Then "Mon Dieu," he exclaimed, "so my fine romance From beginning to end is a rose and a glance." Nora Perry. The Jewish Cemetery at Newport <^> <^> T TOW strange it seems ! These Hebrews in * * their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down ! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, 258 NEW ENGLAND While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial-place, Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God ! for he created Death ! " The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace"; Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease." Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, No Psalms of David now the silence break, No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. NEWPORT 259 How came they here ? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea that desert desolate These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind ? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; Taught in the school of patience to endure The life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha ! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street ; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Chris- tian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. 260 NEW ENGLAND For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah ! what once has been shall be no more ! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Island <^x ^ <^x <^> <^> <^y "^> (Block Island (Manisees)) '"PHE island lies nine leagues away. -*- Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar. Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, NORWICH 261 The black duck, with her glossy breast, Sits swinging silently, How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale amongst the rocks. Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. Richard Henry Dana. CONNECTICUT The Inland City ^> ^> -o> <^y *^ ^> (Norwich) /^UARDED by circling streams and wooded ^-* mountains, Like sentinels round a queen, Dotted with groves and musical with fountains, The city lies serene. 262 NEW ENGLAND Not far away the Atlantic tide diverges, And, up the southern shore Of gray New England, rolls in shortened surges, That murmur evermore. The fairy city ! not for frowning castle Do I extol her name, Not for the gardens and the domes palatial Of oriental fame; Yet if there be one man who will not rally, One man, who sayeth not That of all cities in the Eastern valley Ours is the fairest spot; Then let him roam beneath those elms gigantic, Or idly wander where Shetucket flows meandering, where Yantic Leaps through the cloven air; Gleaming from rock to rock with sunlit motion, Then slumbering in the cove ; So sinks the soul, from Passion's wild devotion, To the deep calm of Love. And journey with me to the village olden, Among whose devious ways Are mossy mansions, rich with legends golden Of early forest days; NORWICH 263 Elysian time ! when, by the rippling water, Or in the woodland groves, The Indian warrior and the Sachem's daughter Whispered their artless loves; Legends of fords, where Uncas made his transit, Fierce for the border war, And drove all day the alien Narragansett Back to his haunts afar; Tales of the after-time, when scant and humble Grew the Mohegan band, And Tracy, Griswold, Huntington, and Trumbull Were judges in the land. So let the ca viler feast on old tradition, And then at sunset climb Up yon green hill, where on his broadened vision May burst the view sublime ! The city spires, with stately power impelling The soul to look above, And peaceful homes, in many a rural dwelling, Lit up with flames of love; And then confess, nor longer idly dally, While sinks the lingering sun, That of all cities in the Eastern valley Ours is the fairest one. ***** Edmund Clarence Stedman. 264 NEW ENGLAND The Birds of Killingworth <^> ^> <^> <^> (Killingworth) TT was the season, when through all the land ^ The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: " Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread ! " Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Or quarreling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors, landed in the street KILLINGWORTH 265 Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; They shook their heads, and doomed with dread- ful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straightway To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; The skeleton that waited at their feast, Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight ! Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said. 266 NEW ENGLAND "A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society ! " The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill; The wrath of God he preached from year to year, And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondack hill; E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass. And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; A suit of sable bombazine he wore; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow : There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so ! " And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town KILLINGWORTH 267 These came together in the new town-hall, With sundry farmers from the region round. The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound; 111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart, Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. "Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 268 NEW ENGLAND "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. "Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys. Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! K1LLINGWORTH 269 " Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! And when you think of this, remember too 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. "Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door? "What! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? "You call them thieves and pillagers; but know, They are the winged wardens of your farms, 270 NEW ENGLAND Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. "How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The selfsame light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach?" With this he closed; and through the audience went A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows A bounty offered for the heads of crows. There was another audience out of reach, Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, KILLING WORTH 271 But in the papers read his little speech, And crowned his modest temples with applause ; They made him conscious, each one more than each, He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, O fair Almira at the Academy ! And so the dreadful massacre began; O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young died of famine in their nests; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; The days were like hot coals; the very ground Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. 272 NEW ENGLAND Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The canker-worms upon the passers-by, Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, Who shook them off with just a little cry; They were the terror of each favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk. The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain, For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew It would not call the dead to life again; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killingworth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, Lamenting the dead children of the air ! KILLINGWORTH 273 But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, A sight that never yet by bard was sung, As great a wonder as it would have been If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! A wagon, o'erarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker pribons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed, While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! But blither still and louder caroled they Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, And everywhere, around, above, below, When the Preceptor bore his bride away, Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, And a new heaven bent over a new earth Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 274 NEW ENGLAND The Phantom Ship <^> <^> ^ Q> (New Haven) TN Mather's Magnalia Christi, * Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and frosty airs That filled her sails at parting Were heavy with good men's prayers. "O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure," Thus prayed the old divine, "To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine ! " But Master Lamberton muttered, And under his breath said he, "This ship is so crank and walty, I fear our grave she will be ! " And the ships that came from England, When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel Nor of Master Lamberton. NEW HAVEN 275 This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered: It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon, When, steadily steering landward, A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came, with a cloud of canvas, Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds, And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the sun ! 276 NEW ENGLAND And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. NEW YORK, NEW JERSEY, PENNSYLVANIA, AND DELAWARE City of glorious days, Of hope, and labor, and mirth, With room, and to spare, on thy splendid bays For the ships of all the earth ! R. W. Older. [Pennsylvania] lovely even then With its fair women and its stately men Gracing the forest court of William Penn. J. G. Whittier. NEW YORK Hendrik's Prophecy <^x <^> <^x <^> <^> The words of the refrain in this song are those used by Henry Hudson himself when he first brought his ship through the Narrows, and saw the Bay of New York. T^LOW fair beside the Palisades, flow Hudson, * fair and free, By proud Manhattan's shore of ships and green Hoboken's tree; So fair yon haven clasped its isles, in such a sunset gleam, When Hendrik and his sea- worn tars first sounded up the stream, And climbed this rocky palisade, and resting on its brow, Passed round the can and gazed awhile on shore and wave below; And Hendrik drank with hearty cheer, and loudly then cried he: " "Pis a good land to fall in with, men, and a pleasant land to see ! " Then something ah, 'twas prophecy ! came glowing to his brain: He seemed to see the mightier space between the oceans twain, 279 280 NEW YORK Where other streams by other strands run through their forests fair, From bold Missouri's lordly tide to the leafy Delaware; The Sacramento, too, he saw, with its sands of secret gold, And the sea-like Mississippi on its long, long courses rolled; And great thoughts glowed within him; "God bless the land," cried he; " 'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and a pleasant land to see ! " I see the white sails on the main, along the land I view The forests opening to the light and the bright ax flashing through; I see the cots and village ways, the churches with their spires, Where once the Indians camped and danced the war-dance, round their fires; I see a storm come up the deep, 'tis hurrying, raging, o'er The darkened fields, but soon it parts, with a sullen, seaward roar. 'Tis gone; the heaven smiles out again God loves the land," cried he; '"Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and a pleasant land to see ! HENDRIK'S PROPHECY 281 "I see the white sails on the main, I see, on all the strands, Old Europe's exiled households crowd, and toil's unnumbered hands From Hessenland and Frankenland, from Danube, Drave, and Rhine, From Netherland, my sea-born land, and the Norseman's hills of pine, From Thames, and Shannon, and their isles and never, sure, before, Invading host such greeting found upon a stranger shore. The generous Genius of the West his welcome proffers free: ' 'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and a pleasant land to see ! ' "They learn to speak one language; they raise one flag adored Over one people evermore, and guard it with the sword. In festive hours, they look upon its starry folds above, And hail it with a thousand songs of glory and of love. Old airs of many a fatherland still mingle with the cheer, To make the love more loving still, the glory still more dear 282 NEW YORK Drink up-sees out! join hands about! bear chorus all," chants he; "'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and a pleasant land to see ! " Anonymous. Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call <^> <^> i Jan., 1661 (New York City) A 1 rHERE nowadays the Battery lies, * * New York had just begun, A new-born babe, to rub its eyes, In Sixteen Sixty-One. They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam, Those burghers grave and stately, And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm, Lived out their lives sedately. Two windmills topped their wooden wall, On Stadthuys gazing down, On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all The quaintly gabled town; These flapped their wings and shifted backs, As ancient scrolls determine, To scare the savage Hackensacks, Paumanks, and other vermin. At night the loyal settlers lay Betwixt their feather-beds; NEW YORK CITY 283 In hose and breeches walked by day, And smoked and wagged their heads. No changeful fashions came from France, The freulen to bewilder, And cost the burgher's purse, perchance, Its every other guilder. In petticoats of linsey-red, And jackets neatly kept, The vrouws their knitting-needles sped And deftly spun and swept. Few modern-school flirtations there Set wheels of scandal trundling, But youths and maidens did their share Of staid, old-fashioned bundling. The New Year opened clear and cold; The snow, a Flemish ell In depth, lay over Beekman's Wold And Wolfert's frozen well. Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors, Drew on his Holland leather, Then stamped through drifts to do the chores, Beshrewing all such weather. But after herring, ham, and kraut To all the gathered town The Dominie preached the morning out, In Calvinistic gown; 284 NEW YORK While tough old Peter Stuyvesant Sat pewed in foremost station, The potent, sage, and valiant Third Governor of the nation. Prayer over, at his mansion hall, With cake and courtly smile, He met the people, one and all, In gubernatorial style; Yet missed, though now the day was old, An ancient fellow-feaster Heer Covert Loockermans, that bold Brewer and burgomeester; Who, in his farmhouse, close without The picket's eastern end, Sat growling at the twinge of gout That kept him from his friend. But Peter strapped his wooden peg, When tea and cake were ended (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg Its high jack-boot defended), A woolsey cloak about him threw, And swore by wind and limb, Since Covert kept from Peter's view, Peter would visit him; NEW YORK CITY 285 Then sallied forth, through snow and blast, While many a humbler greeter Stood wondering whereaway so fast Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter. Past quay and cowpath, through a lane Of vats and mounded tans, He puffed along, with might and main, To Go vert Loockermans; Once there, his right of entry took, And hailed his ancient crony: " Myn God ! in dese Manhattoes, Loock, Ve gets more snow as money ! " To which, and after whiffs profound, With doubtful wink and nod, There came at last responsive sound: "Yah, Peter; yah, Myn God! " Then goodevrouw Marie sat her guest Beneath the chimney-gable, And courtesied, bustling at her best To spread the New Year's table. She brought the pure and genial schnapps, That years before had come In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps To cheer the settlers' home; 286 NEW YORK The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll Of pressed and crispy Spanish; Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, Nor long delayed to vanish. Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, And honors of the day, The trader mixed the Governor's drink As evening sped away. That ancient room ! I see it now: The carven nutwood dresser; The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw Begrudged their rich possessor; The brace of high-backed leathern chairs, Brass-nailed at every seam; Six others, ranged in equal pairs; The bacon hung abeam; The chimney-front, with porcelain shelf t; The hearty wooden fire; The picture, on the steaming delft, Of David and Goliah. I see the two old Dutchmen sit Like Magog and his mate, And hear them, when their pipes are lit, Discuss affairs of state: NEW YORK CITY 287 The clique that would their sway demean; The pestilent importation Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean And losel Yankee nation. But when the subtle juniper Assumed its sure command, They drank the buxom loves that were, They drank the Motherland; They drank the famous Swedish wars, Stout Peter's special glory, While Govert proudly showed the scars Of Indian contests gory. Erelong, the berry's power awoke Some music in their brains, And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, Rang long-forgotten strains, Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, Of phantom ships and battle; And Peter, with his leg of wood, Made floor and casement rattle. Then round and round the dresser pranced, The chairs began to wheel, And on the board the punch-bowl danced A Netherlandish reel; 288 NEW YORK Till midnight o'er the farmhouse spread Her New Year's skirt of sable, And inch by inch, each puzzled head Dropt down upon the table. But still to Peter, as he dreamed, The table spread and turned; The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed To circle as it burned; The town into the vision grew From ending to beginning; Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, All widening and spinning. The cowpaths, leading to the docks, Grew broader, whirling past, And checkered into shining blocks, A city fair and vast; Stores, churches, mansions, overspread The metamorphosed island, While not a beaver showed his head From Swamp to Kalchook highland. Eftsoons the picture passed away; Hours after, Peter woke To see a spectral streak of day Gleam in through fading smoke; NEW YORK HARBOR 289 Still slept old Covert, snoring on In most melodious numbers; No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One Commingled with his slumbers. But Peter, from the farmhouse door, Gazed doubtfully around, Rejoiced to find himself once more On sure and solid ground. The sky was somewhat dark ahead, Wind east, the morning lowery; And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread, To breakfast at his Bouwery. Edmund Clarence Stedman. When the Great Gray Ships Come i August 20, 1898 (New York Harbor) eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er *- mapless miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the fur- thermost isles are free, And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls ! Be still ! " 290 NEW YORK Mother ! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home ! And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars ! Peace ! As the tidings silence the strenuous can- nonade, Peace at last ! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace ! Thank God for peace." Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go, NEW YORK HARBOR 291 How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here ! " For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God ! Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait, To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait: But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win ! Thank God for peace ! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in! Guy Wetmore Carryl. 292 NEW YORK Mannahatta <^> <^> <^> ^> ^> ^ (New York City) A H, she is stronger than thou, she who now *^ holds us; She that sits by the sea, new-crowned with a five- fold tiara; 294 NEW YORK She of the great twin harbors, our lady of rivers and islands; Tower-topped Manhattan, With feet reeded round with the masts of the five great oceans Flowering the flags of all nations, flaunting and furling, City of ironways, city of ferries, Sea-Queen and Earth-Queen ! Look, how the line of her roofs corning down from the north Breaks into surf-leap of granite jagged sierras Upheaval volcanic, lined sharp on the violet sky Where the red moon, lop-sided, past the full, Over their ridge swims in the tide of space, And the harbor waves laugh* softly, silently. Look, how the overhead train at the Morningside curve Loops like a sea-born dragon its sinuous flight, Loops in the night in and out, high up in the air, Like a serpent of stars with the evil and undulant reach of waves. From under the Bridge at noon See from the yonder shore how the great curves rise and converge, NEW YORK CITY 295 Like the beams of the universe, like the masonry of the sky, Like the arches set for the corners of the world, The foundation-stone of the orbic spheres and spaces. Is she not fair and terrible, O Mother City of Titan thews, deep-breasted, colossal- limbed, Splendid with the spoil of nations, myriad- mooded Manhattan ? Behold, we are hers she has claimed us; and who has power to withstand her ? Richard Hovey. Brooklyn Bridge ^> (New York City) 1\JO lifeless thing of iron and stone, * ^ But sentient, as her children are, Nature accepts you for her own, Kin to the cataract and the star. She marks your vast, sufficing plan, Cable and girder, bolt and rod, And takes you, from the hand of man, For some new handiwork of God. You thrill through all your chords of steel Responsive to the living sun; 296 NEW YORK And quickening in your nerves you feel Life with its conscious currents run. Your anchorage upbears the march Of time and the eternal powers. The sky admits your perfect arch, The rock respects your stable towers. Charles G. D. Roberts. Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn 1 <^>- <^> <^> <^> (New York City) T of the cleansing night of stars and tides, Building itself anew in the slow dawn, The long sea-city rises: night is gone, Day is not yet; still merciful, she hides Her summoning brow, and still the night-car glides Empty of faces; the night-watchmen yawn One to the other, and shiver and pass on, Nor yet a soul over the great bridge rides. Frail as a gossamer, a thing of air, A bow of shadow o'er the river flung, Its sleepy masts and lonely lapping flood; Who seeing thus the bridge a-slumber there, Would dream such softness like a picture hung, Is wrought of human thunder, iron and blood? Richard Le Gallienne. 1 With permission of John Lane Company. NEW YORK CITY 297 Pan in Wall Street <^x <^> <^x <^x ^> (New York City) JUST where the Treasury's marble front J Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple, Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 298 NEW YORK 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head; But hidden thus there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goafs-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; NEW YORK CITY 299 The random passers stayed to list, A boxer ^Egon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng, A blowsy, apple- vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water ! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 300 NEW YORK So thought I, but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, " Great Pan is dead ! " and all the people Went on their ways: and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. Edmund Clarence Stedman. Washington Square <^> ^> <^> *o> *o> (New York City) ' I "HIS is the end of the town that I love the best. -* Oh, lovely the hour of light from the burn- ing west Of light that lingers and fades in the shadowy square Where the solemn fountain lifts a shaft in the air To catch the skyey colors, and fling them down In a wild-wood torrent that drowns the noise of the town. And lovely the hour of the still and dreamy night When, lifted against the blue, stands the arch of white With one clear planet above; and the sickle moon, In curve reversed from the arch's marble round, Silvers the sapphire sky. Now soon, ah soon, Shall the city square be turned to holy ground NEW YORK CITY 301 Through the light of the moon and the stars and the glowing flower, The Cross of Light, that looms from the sacred tower. Richard Watson Gilder. Broadway <^x *^ ^> <^x <^> (New York City) this day of brightest dawning, Underneath each spreading awning, Sheltered from the sun's fierce ray, Come, and let us saunter gayly With the crowd whose footsteps, daily, Wear the sidewalks of Broadway. Leave the proof-sheets and the printer Till the duller days of winter, Till some dark December day; Better than your lucubrations Are the vivid inspirations You can gather in Broadway ! Tell me not, in half-derision, Of your Boulevards Parisian, With their brilliant broad paves, Still for us the best is nearest, And the last love is the dearest, And the Queen of Streets Broadway ! 302 NEW YORK Here, beneath bewitching bonnets, Sparkle eyes to kindle sonnets, Charms, each worth a lyric lay; Ah ! what bright, untold romances Linger in the radiant glances Of the beauties of Broadway ! All the fairer, that so fleeting . Is the momentary meeting, That our footsteps may not stay; While, each passing form replacing, Swift the waves of life are chasing Down the channels of Broadway ! Motley as the masqueraders Are the jostling promenaders, In their varied, strange display; Here an instant, only, blending, Whither are their footsteps tending As they hasten through Broadway ? Some to garrets and to cellars, Crowded with unhappy dwellers; Some to mansions, rich and gay, Where the evening's mirth and pleasure Shall be fuller, in their measure, Than the turmoil of Broadway ! Yet were once our mortal vision Blest with quicker intuition, NEW YORK CITY 303 We should shudder with dismay To behold what shapes are haunting Some, who seem most gayly flaunting On the sidewalks of Broadway ! For, beside the beggar cheerless, And the maiden gay and fearless, And the old man worn and gray, Swift and viewless, waiting never, Still the Fates are gliding ever, Stern and silent, through Broadway ! William Allen Butler. Broadway (New York City) "OETWEEN these frowning granite steeps *~* The human river onward sweeps; And here it moves with torrent force, And there it slacks its heady course: But what controls its variant flow A keener wit than mine must show, Who cast myself upon the tide, And with its current, merging, glide, A drop, an atom, of the whole Of its great bulk and wandering soul. O curbless river, savage stream, Thou art my wilderness extreme, 304 NEW YORK Where I may move as free, as lone, As in the waste with wood o'ergrown, And broodings of as brave a strain May here unchallenged entertain, Whether meridian light display The swift routine of current day, Or yet, electric, diamond-clear, Convoke a world of glamour here. Yet when of solitude I tire, Speak comradeship to my desire, most companionable tide, Where all to all are firm allied, And each hath countenance from the rest, Although the tie be unconf essed ! ii 1 muse upon this river's brink; I listen long; I strive to think What cry goes forth, of many blent, And by that cry what thing is meant, What simple legend of old fate Man's voice, here inarticulate, From out this dim and strange uproar Still heaves upon the skyey shore ! Amid this swift, phantasmal stream Sometimes I move as in a dream; Then wondrous quiet, for a space, The clanging tumult will displace; NEW YORK CITY 305 And toil's hard gride and pleasure's hum No longer to my ear may come: A pantomimic haunted throng Fareth in silence deep and strong, And seems in summoned haste to urge, Half prescient, towards a destined verge! The river flows, unwasting flows; Nor less nor more its volume grows, From source to sea still onward rolled, As days are shed and years are told; And yet so mutable its wave, That no man twice therein may lave, But ere he can return again, Himself shall subtle change sustain; Since more and more each life must be Tide-troubled by the drawing sea. Edith M. Thomas. On a Subway Express <^> <^> <^ <^> (New York City) T WHO have lost the stars, the sod, -* For chilling pave and cheerless light, Have made my meeting-place with God A new and nether Night Have found a fane where thunder fills Loud caverns, tremulous; and these 306 NEW YORK Atone me for my reverend hills And moonlit silences. A figment in the crowded dark, Where men sit muted by the roar, I ride upon the whirring Spark Beneath the city's floor. In this dim firmament, the stars Whirl by in blazing files and tiers; Kin meteors graze our flying bars, Amid the spinning spheres. Speed ! speed ! until the quivering rails Flash silver where the head-light gleams, As when on lakes the Moon impales The waves upon its beams. * Life throbs about me, yet I stand Outgazing on majestic Power; Death rides with me, on either hand, In my communion hour. You that 'neath country skies can pray, Scoff not at me the city clod; My only respite of the Day Is this wild ride with God. Chester Firkins. FORDHAM 307 On the Elevated Railroad at uoth Street <^y (New York City) \ BOVE the hollow deep where lies ** The city's slumbering face, Out, out across the night we swing, A meteor launched in space. The dark above is sown with stars, The humming dark below With sparkle of ten thousand lamps In endless row on row. Tall shadow towers with glimmering lights Stand sinister and grim Where upper deep and lower deep Come darkly rim to rim. Our souls have known the midnight awe Of mount, -and plain, and sea; But here the city's night enfolds A vaster mystery. Charles G. D. Roberts. Poe's Cottage at Fordham ^> <^> *^> ^> (Fordham) TTERE lived the soul enchanted -*- -* By melody of song; Here dwelt the spirit haunted By a demoniac throng; 308 NEW YORK Here sang the lips elated; Here grief and death were sated; Here loved and here unmated Was he, so frail, so strong. Here wintry winds and cheerless The dying firelight blew, While he whose song was peerless Dreamed the drear midnight through, And from dull embers chilling Crept shadows darkly filling The silent place, and thrilling His fancy as they grew. Here, with brow bared to heaven, In starry night he stood, With the lost star of seven Feeling sad brotherhood. Here in the sobbing showers Of dark autumnal hours He heard suspected powers Shriek through the stormy wood. From visions of Apollo And of Astarte's bliss, He gazed into the hollow And hopeless vale of Dis, FORDHAM 309 And though earth were surrounded By heaven, it still was mounded With graves. His soul had sounded The dolorous abyss. Proud, mad, but not defiant, He touched at heaven and hell. Fate found a rare soul pliant And rung her changes well. Alternately his lyre, Stranded with strings of fire, Led earth's most happy choir, Or flashed with Israfel. No singer of old story Luting accustomed lays, No harper for new glory, No mendicant for praise, He struck high chords and splendid, Wherein were fiercely blended Tones that unfinished ended With his unfinished days. Here through this lowly portal, Made sacred by his name, Unheralded immortal The mortal went and came. 310 NEW YORK And fate that then denied him, And envy that decried him, And malice that belied him, Have cenotaphed his fame. John Henry Boner. At Bay Ridge, Long Island<^> ^> <^x *^> PLEASANT it is to lie amid the grass -*- Under these shady locusts, half the day, Watching the ships reflected on the Bay, Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass: To see the happy-hearted martins pass, Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac spray: Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay Of fairy regions : or to muse, alas ! On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn; On patient Milton's sorrowfulest eyes Shut from the splendors of the Night and Morn: To think that now, beneath the Italian skies In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave, Daisies are trembling over Keats 's grave. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Hudson Rivera <^> <^ ^ <^> <^x ^> "D IVERS that roll most musical in song -*-^ Are often lovely to the mind alone; The wanderer muses, as he moves along Their barren banks, on glories not their own. HUDSON RIVER 311 When, to give substance to his boyish dreams, He leaves his own, far countries to survey, Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, "Their names alone are beautiful, not they." If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour A tide more meagre than his native Charles; Or views the Rhone when summer's heat is o'er, Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Aries; Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome, Oft to his thought must partial memory bring More noble waves, without renown, at home; Now let him climb the Catskill, to behold The lordly Hudson, marching to the main, And say what bard, in any land of old, Had such a river to inspire his strain. Along the Rhine gray battlements and towers- Declare what robbers once the realm possessed; But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours, And man has hardly more than built his nest. No storied castle overawes these heights, Nor antique arches check the current's play, Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites To dream of deities long passed away. 312 NEW YORK No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years, Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, A summer cloud ! that comes and disappears. But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise And hold their savins to the upper storm, While far below the skiff securely plies. Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, Boeotian plenty on a Spartan soil. Then, where the reign of cultivation ends, Again the charming wilderness begins; From steep to steep one solemn wood extends, Till some new hamlet's rise the boscage thins. And these deep groves forever have remained Touched by no ax, by no proud owner nursed As' now they stand they stood when Pharaoh reigned, Lineal descendants of creation's first. No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee In ancient scrolls; no deeds of doubtful claim Have hung a history on every tree, And given each rock its fable and a fame. HUDSON RIVER 313 But neither here hath any conqueror trod, Nor grim invaders from barbarian climes; No horrors feigned of giant or of god Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. Here never yet have happy fields laid waste, The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced, Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. "Yet, O Antiquity! " the stranger sighs, "Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes, Where all is fair indeed, but all is new." False thought ! is age to crumbling walls confined ? To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones ? Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, More than old fortresses and sculptured stones ? Call not this new which is the only land That wears unchanged the same primeval face Which, when just dawning from its Maker's hand Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth Glide past green Eden towards the unknown south, 314 NEW YORK Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth,- And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth. Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile ! Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young; O, had thy waters burst from Britain's isle, Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung. Thomas William Parsons. The Hudson -o> ^> <^> *^x ^> <^> o ' '"TWAS a vision of childhood that came with its -" dawn, Ere the curtain that covered life's day-star was drawn ; The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long, And the mother's soft lullaby breathed it in song. "There flows a fair stream by the hills of the west," She sang to her boy as he lay on her breast; "Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid." I wandered afar from the land of my birth, I saw the old rivers, renowned upon earth, But fancy still painted that wide-flowing stream With the many-hued pencil of infancy's dream. THE HUDSON 315 I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine, Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change it to wine; I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glide Still whisper his glory who sleeps at their side. But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the waves That sing as they flow by my forefathers' graves; If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear, I care not who sees it, no blush for it here ! Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West ! 1 fling this loose blossom to float on its breast; Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold, Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. From The Cidprit (The Hudson) "T*IS the middle watch of a summer's night: * The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 316 NEW YORK And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cronest: She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel- like spiral line below; The winds are whist and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze- winged katydid; And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. Joseph Rodman Drake. RIP VAN WINKLE 317 The Hudson <^> <^ *^> <^> A ~\ THERE in its old historic splendor stands ^ * The home of England's far-famed Parlia- ment, And waters of the Thames in calm content At England's fame flow slowly o'er their sands; And where the Rhine past vine-entwined lands Courses in castled beauty, there I went; And far to Southern rivers, flower-besprent; And to the icy streams of Northern strands. Then mine own native shores I trod once more, And, gazing on thy waters' majesty, The memory, O Hudson, came to me Of one who went to seek the wide world o'er For Love, but found it not. Then home turned he And saw his mother waiting at the door. George Sidney Hellman. Catskill Mountains <^x <^x <^x <^> <^y From Rip Van Winkle T 1 7HOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson * ^ must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lord- ing it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the mag- 318 NEW YORK ical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. Washington Irving. TTOW reel the wildered senses at the sight! ^ *- How vast the boundless vision breaks in view! Nor thought, nor word, can well depict the scene; The din of toil comes faintly swelling up From green fields far below ; and all around The forest sea sends up its ceaseless roar Like to the ocean's everlasting chime. Mountains on mountains in the distance rise, Like clouds along the far horizon's verge; Their misty summits mingling with the sky, Till earth and heaven seem blended into one. So far removed from toil and bustling care, So far from earth, if heaven no nearer be, And gazing, as a spirit, from mid-air Upon the strife and tumult of the world, CATTERSKILL FALLS 319 Let me forget the cares I leave behind, And with an humble spirit, bow before The Maker of these everlastin'g hills. Bayard Taylor. Catterskill Falls l ^ -o> ^> *^> TV /TIDST greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 1V1 jr rom cliffs where the wood-flower clings; All summer he moistens his verdant steeps With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs; And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. But when, in the forest bare and old, The blast of December calls, He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, A palace of ice where his torrent falls, With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, And pillars blue as the summer air. For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, In the cold and cloudless night? Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought In forms so lovely and hues so bright ? Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. 320 NEW YORK 'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, A hundred winters ago, Had wandered over the mighty wood, When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, And keen were the winds that came to stir The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir. Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair For a child of those rugged steeps; His home lay low in the valley where The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; But he wore the hunter's frock that day, And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. And here he paused, and against the trunk Of a tall gray linden leant, When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk From his path in the frosty firmament, And over the round dark edge of the hill A cold green light was quivering still. And the crescent moon, high over the green, From a sky of crimson shone On that icy palace, whose towers were seen To sparkle as if with stars of their own; While the water fell with a hollow sound, 'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. CATTERSKILL FALLS 321 Is that a being of life, that moves Where the crystal battlements rise? A maiden watching the moon she loves, At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? Was that a garment which seemed to gleam Betwixt his eye and the falling stream ? 'Tis only the torrent tumbling o'er, In the midst of those glassy walls, Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 'Tis only the torrent but why that start? Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? He thinks no more of his home afar, Where his sire and sister wait. He heeds no longer how star after star Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late. He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast From a thousand boughs by the rising blast. His thoughts are alone of those who dwell In the halls of frost and snow, Who pass where the crystal domes upswell From the alabaster floors below, Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 322 NEW YORK "And oh, that those glorious haunts were mine !" He speaks, and throughout the glen Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, And take a ghastly likeness of men, As if the slain by the wintry storms Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. There pass the chasers of seal and whale, With their weapons quaint and grim, And bands of warriors in glittering mail, And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb; There are naked arms, with bow and spear, And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. There are mothers and oh, how sadly their eyes On their children's white brows rest ! There are youthful lovers, the maiden lies, In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair. They eye him not as they pass along, But his hair stands up with dread, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, Till those icy turrets are over his head, And the torrent's roar as they enter seems Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. CATTERSKILL FALLS 323 The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, When there gathers and wraps him round A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, In which there is neither form nor sound; The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, With the dying voice of the waterfall. Slow passes the darkness of that trance, And the youth now faintly sees Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, And rifles glitter on antlers strung. On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; As he strives to raise his head, Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, Come round him and smooth his furry bed, And bid him rest, for the evening star Is scarcely set and the day is far. They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep, When over his stiffening limbs begun The deadly slumber of frost to creep, And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. William Cidlen Brvant. 324 NEW YORK In the Churchyard at Tarrytown-v> <^ ^ ( Tarrytown) TTERE lies the gentle humorist, who died * * In the bright Indian Summer of his fame ! A simple stone, with but a date and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified. Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were all aflame With tints that brightened and were multiplied. How sweet a life was his ; how sweet a death ! Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. Henry Wadsworth Long fell on. Lake Saratoga *o <^> <^> <^ <^> <^> A LADY stands beside the silver lake. "What," said the Mohawk, "wouldst thou have me do ? " "Across the water, sir, be pleased to take Me and my children in thy bark canoe." " Ah ! " said the Chief, " thou knowest not, I think, The legend of the lake, hast ever heard LAKE SARATOGA 325 That in its wave the stoutest boat will sink, If any passenger shall speak a word ?" "Full well we know the Indian's strange belief," The lady answered, with a civil smile; "But take us o'er the water, mighty Chief; In rigid silence we will sit the while." Thus they embarked, but ere the little boat Was half across the lake, the woman gave Her tongue its wonted play, but still they float, And pass in safety o'er the utmost wave ! Safe on the shore, the warrior looked amazed, Despite the stoic calmness of his race; No word he spoke, but long the Indian gazed In moody silence in the woman's face. "What think you now ?" the lady gayly said; " Safely to land your frail canoe is brought ! No harm, you see, has touched a single head ! So superstition ever comes to naught!" Smiling, the Mohawk said, "Our safety shows That God is merciful to old and young; Thanks unto the Great Spirit ! well he knows The pale-faced woman cannot hold her tongue! " John Godfrey Saxe, 326 NEW YORK Lake George <^> ^o> <^x <^ <^> <^> A SUMMER shower had swept the woods; *;* But when, from all the scene, Rolled off at length the thunder-floods, And streamed the sunset sheen, I came where my postilion raised His horsewhip for a wand, And said, "There's Horicon, good sir, And here's the Bloody Pond ! "And don't you see yon low gray wall, With grass and bushes grown ? Well, that's Fort George's palisade, That many a storm has known: But here's the Bloody Pond where lies Full many a soldier tall; The spring, they say, was never pure Since that red burial." 'Twas rare to see ! That vale beneath ; That lake so calm and cool ! But mournful was each lily-wreath, Upon the turbid pool : And "On, postilion, let us haste To greener banks," I cried, "O, stay me not where man has stained With brother's blood the tide ! " LAKE GEORGE 327 An hour, and though the Even-star Was chasing down the sun, My boat was on thine azure wave, Sweet, holy Horicon ! And woman's voice cheered on our bark, With soft bewildering song, While fireflies, darting through the dark, Went lighting us along. Anon, that bark was on the beach, And soon I stood alone Upon thy moldering walls, Fort George, So old and ivy-grown. At once, old tales of massacre Were crowding on my soul, And ghosts of ancient sentinels Paced up the rocky knoll. The shadowy hour was dark enow For fancy's wild campaign, And moments were impassioned hours Of battle and of pain: Each brake and thistle seemed alive With fearful shapes of fight, And up the feathered scalp-locks rose Of many a tawny sprite. The Mohawk war-whoop howled again; I heard St. Denys' charge, And then the volleyed musketry Of England and St. George. 328 NEW YORK The vale, the rocks, the cradling hills, From echoing rank to rank, Rung back the warlike rhetoric Of Huron and of Frank. "So, keep thy name, Lake George," said I, "And bear to latest day, The memory of our primal age, And England's early sway; And when Columbia's flag shall here Her starry glories toss, Be witness how our fathers fought Beneath St. George's cross." ***** Arthur Cleveland Coxe. Falls of the Mohawk <^y -^> <^> (Mohawk River) "IC'ROM rise of morn till set of sun *- I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I marked the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass; And as I viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untired and wild, Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, MOHAWK RIVER 329 Flying by every green recess That wooed him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind, Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, How like to thee, thou restless tide, May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along thy water's brim; Through what alternate wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sheltered, calm retreat May woo the while my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest; But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry rny heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run. One only prayer I dare to make, As onward thus my course I take, Oh, be my falls as bright as thine ! May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee ! Thomas Moore. 33 NEW YORK From The Adirondacs ^> <^> ^> A JOURNAL. DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-TRAVELERS IN 1858. Wise and polite. and if I drew Their several portraits, you would own Chaucer had no such worthy crew, Nor Boccace in Decameron. "\ \ TE crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our T * friends, Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach 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, Tahawus, Seaward, Maclntyre, Baldhead, And other Titans without muse or name. Pleased with these grand companions, we glide on, Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of hills. We made our distance wider, boat from boat, As each would hear the oracle alone. 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, Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day, THE ADIRONDACS 331 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, 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 Due 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 ax these echoes ever heard. We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts, 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 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. ' Welcome ! ' the wood-god murmured through the leaves, 'Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known to me.' 332 NEW YORK 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. 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. ***** Ralph Waldo Emerson. My Own Dark Genesee <^ -^> <^> <^> (Genesee River) T^HEY told me southern land could boast -^ Charms richer than mine own: Sun, moon, and stars of brighter glow, And winds of gentler tone; And parting from each olden haunt, Familiar rock and tree, From that sweet vale I wandered far Washed by the Genesee. I pined beneath a foreign sky, Though birds, like harps in tune, Lulled Winter on a couch of flowers Clad in the garb of June. GENESEE RIVER 333 In vain on reefs of coral broke The glad waves of the sea ; For, like thy voice they sounded not, My own dark Genesee ! When Christmas came, though round me grew The lemon-tree and lime, And the warm sky above me threw The blue of summer-time; I thought of my loved northern home, And wished for wings to flee Where frost-bound, between frozen banks, Lay hushed the Genesee. For the gray, mossed paternal roof My throbbing bosom yearned, And ere the flight of many moons My steps I homeward turned; My heart, to joy a stranger long, Was tuned to rapture's key, When ear the murmur heard once more Of my own Genesee. Ambition from the scenes of youth May others lure away To chase the phantom of renown Throughout their little day; 334 NEW YORK I would not, for a palace proud And slave of pliant knee, Forsake a cabin in thy vale, My own dark Genesee. William Henry Cuyler Hosmer. Niagara <^> <^> From Tales and Sketches that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all the fresh- ness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and wor- shiped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky, a scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity to realize. ***** There were intervals when I was conscious of nothing but the great river, rolling calmly into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have NIAGARA 335 anticipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the ever- varying shapes of mist, rising up to become clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient like the rage of the tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which pro- duce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of calm- ness. It soothes, while it awes the mind. Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Cataract Isle ^> ^> ^ ^ <^y (Niagara) T WANDERED through the ancient wood * That crowns the cataract isle. I heard the roaring of the flood And saw its wild, fierce smile. Through tall tree-tops the sunshine flecked The huge trunks and the ground, And the pomp of fullest summer decked The island all around. And winding paths led all along Where friends and lovers strayed, And voices rose with laugh and song From sheltered nooks of shade. 336 NEW YORK Through opening forest vistas whirled The rapids' foamy flash, As they boiled along and plunged and swirled, And neared the last long dash. I crept to the island's outer verge, Where the grand, broad river fell, Fell sheer down mid foam and surge In a white and blinding hell. The steady rainbow gayly shone Above the precipice, And the deep low tone of a thunder groan Rolled up from the drear abyss. And all the day sprang up the spray Where the broad white sheets were poured, - And fell around in showery play, Or upward curled and soared. And all the night those sheets of white Gleamed through the spectral mist, When o'er the isle the broad moonlight The wintry foam-flakes kissed. Mirrored within my dreamy thought, I see it, feel it all, That island 'with sweet visions fraught, That awful waterfall. NIAGARA 337 With sunflecked trees, and birds and flowers, The Isle of Life is fair; But one deep voice thrills through its hours, One spectral form is there, A power no mortal can resist, Rolling forever on, A floating cloud, a shadowy mist, Eternal undertone. And through the sunny vistas gleam The fate, the solemn smile. Life is Niagara's rushing stream; Its dreams that peaceful isle ! Christopher Pearse Cranch. Niagara HPHE WATER TALKED TO THE TURBINE * AT THE INTAKE'S COUCHANT KNEE: Brother, thy mouth is darkness Devouring me. I rush at the whirl of thy bidding; I pour and spend Through the wheel-pit's nether tempest. Brother, the end ? 338 NEW YORK Before fierce days of tent and javelin, Before the cloudy kings of Ur, Before the Breath upon the waters, My splendors were. Red hurricanes of roving worlds, Huge wallow of the uncharted Sea, The formless births of fluid stars, Remember me. A glacial dawn, the smcfce of rainbows, The swiftness of the canoned west, The steadfast column of white volcanoes, Leap from my breast. But now, subterranean, mirthless, I tug and strain, Beating out a dance thou hast taught me With penstock, cylinder, vane. I am more delicate than moonlight, Grave as the thunder's rocking brow; I am genesis, revelation, Yet less than thou. By this I adjure thee, brother, Beware to offend! For the least, the dumbfounded the conquered, Shall judge in the end. NIAGARA 339 THE TURBINE TALKED TO THE MAN AT THE SWITCHBOARD'S CRYPTIC KEY: Brother, thy touch is whirlwind Consuming me. I revolve at the pulse of thy finger, Millions of power I flash For the muted and ceaseless cables And the engine's crash. Like Samson, fettered, blindfolded, I sweat at my craft; But I build a temple I know not, Driver and ring and shaft. Wheat-field and tunnel and furnace, They tremble and are aware. But beyond thou compellest me, brother, Beyond these, where? Singing like sunrise on battle, I travail as hills that bow; I am wind and fire of prophecy, Yet less than thou. By this I adjure thee, brother, Be slow to of end! For the least, the blindfolded, the conquered, Shall judge in the end. 340 NEW YORK THE MAN STROVE WITH HIS MAKER AT THE CLANG OF THE POWER-HOUSE DOOR: Lord, Lord, Thou art unsearchable, Troubling me sore. I have thrust my spade to the caverns; I have yoked the cataract; I have counted the steps of the planets, What thing have I lacked ? I am come to a goodly country, Where, putting my hand to the plow, I have not considered the lilies, Am I less than Thou? THE MAKER SPAKE WITH THE MAN AT THE TERMINAL-HOUSE OF THE LINE: For delight wouldst thou have desolation, O brother mine, And flaunt on the highway of nations A byword and sign? Have I fashioned thee then in my image And quickened thy spirit of old, If thou spoil my garments of wonder For a handful of gold ? I wrought for thy glittering possession The waterfall's glorious lust; It is genesis, revelation, Wilt thou grind it to dust? AT NIAGARA 341 Niagara, the genius of freedom, A creature for base command ! Thy soul is the pottage thou sellest: Withhold thy hand. Or take him and bind him and make him A magnificent slave if thou must But remember that beauty is treasure And gold is dust. Yea, thou, returned to the fertile ground In the humble days to be, Shalt learn that he who slays a splendor Has murdered Me. By this I adjure thee, brother, Beware to of end I For the least, the extinguished, the conquered, Shall judge in the end. Florence Wilkinson. At Niagara ^> o <^> <^> ^> ^> <^> '"PHERE at the chasm's edge behold her lean -* Trembling as, 'neath the charm, A wild bird lifts no wing to 'scape from harm; Her very soul drawn to the glittering, green, Smooth, lustrous, awful, lovely curve of peril; While far below the bending sea of beryl Thunder and tumult whence a billowy spray Enclouds the day. 342 NEW YORK What dream is hers? No dream hath wrought that spell ! The long waves rise and sink; Pity that virgin soul on passion's brink, Confronting Fate, swift, unescapable, Fate, which of nature is the intent and core, And dark and strong as the steep river's pour, Cruel as love, and wild as love's first kiss ! Ah, God! The abyss! Richard Watson Gilder. Perry's Victory on Lake Erie *o> -=^> <^> (Lake Erie) "DRIGHT was the morn, the waveless bay *-* Shone like a mirror to the sun; Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay, The matin birds their lays begun: While swelling o'er the gloomy wood Was heard the faintly echoed roar, The dashing of the foamy flood, That beat on Erie's distant shore. The tawny wanderer of the wild Paddled his painted birch canoe, And, where the wave serenely smiled, Swift as the darting falcon, flew; LAKE ERIE 343 He rowed along that peaceful bay, And glanced its polished surface o'er, Listening the billow far away, That rolled on Erie's lonely shore. What sounds awake my slumbering ear? What echoes o'er the waters come ? It is the morning gun I hear, The rolling of the distant drum. Far o'er the bright illumined wave I mark the flash, I hear the roar, That calls from sleep the slumbering brave, To fight on Erie's lonely shore. See how the starry banner floats, And sparkles in the morning ray: While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes In echoes o'er the gleaming bay: Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet Columbia's cannons loudly roar, And valiant tars the battle greet, That storms on Erie's echoing shore. 0, who can tell what deeds were done, When Britain's cross, on yonder wave, Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun, And met in Erie's flood its grave? Who tell the triumphs of that day, When, smiling at the cannon's roar, Our hero, mid the bloody fray, Conquered on Erie's echoing shore? 344 NEW JERSEY Though many a wounded bosom bleeds For sire, for son, for lover dear, Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds, Affliction dries her tender tear; Oh ! she exclaims, with glowing pride, With ardent thoughts that wildly soar, My sire, my son, my lover died, Conquering on Erie's bloody shore ! ***** James Gates Percival. NEW JERSEY The Falls of the Passaic <^> <^> <^> <>y (Passaic River) TN a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of ^ green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear. No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight, No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight; Here the wild floweret blossomed, the elm proudly waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved. PASSAIC RIVER 345 But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode, Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, And gloried in thunder and lightning and storm; All flushed from the tumult of battle he came, Where the red men encountered the children of flame, While the noise of the war-whoop still rang hi his ears, And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears: With a glance of disgust, he the landscape sur- veyed, With its fragrant wild-flowers, its wide waving shade; Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene. He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low; He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow; He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave, And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave. 346 NEW JERSEY Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time, Cultivation has softened those features sublime; The ax of the white man has lightened the shade, And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade. But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye, On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high; Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam, Where the torrent leaps headlong, embosomed in foam. Washington Irving. Fuit Ilium (Elizabeth) WASHINGTON'S HEADQUARTERS by one they died, Last of all their race; Nothing left but pride, Lace, and buckled hose. Their quietus made, On their dwelling-place Ruthless hands are laid: Down the old house goes ! ELIZABETH 347 See the ancient manse Meet its fate at last ! Time, in his advance, Age nor honor knows; Ax and broadax fall, Lopping off the Past: Hit with bar and maul, Down the old house goes ! Sevenscore years it stood: Yes, they built it well, Though they built of wood, When that house arose. For its cross-beams square Oak and walnut fell; Little worse for wear, Down the old house goes ! Rending board and plank, Men with crowbars ply, Opening fissures dank, Striking deadly blows. From the gabled roof How the shingles fly ! Keep you here aloof, Down the old house goes ! Holding still its place, There the chimney stands, Stanch from top to base, Frowning on its foes. 348 NEW JERSEY Heave apart the stones, Burst its iron bands ! How it shakes and groans ! Down the old house goes ! Round the mantel-piece Glisten Scripture tiles; Henceforth they shall cease Painting Egypt's woes, Painting David's fight, Fair Bathsheba's smiles, Blinded Samson's might, Down the old house goes ! On these oaken floors High-shoed ladies trod; Through those paneled doors Trailed their furbelows: Long their day has ceased; Now, beneath the sod, With the worms they feast, Down the old house goes ! Many a bride has stood In yon spacious room; Here her hand was wooed Underneath the rose; O'er that sill the dead Reached the family tomb: All, that were, have fled, Down the old house goes ! ELIZABETH 349 Once, in yonder hall, Washington, they say, Led the New- Year's ball, Stateliest of beaux! O that minuet, Maids and matrons gay ! Are there such sights yet ? Down the old house goes ! British troopers came Ere another year, With their coats aflame, Mincing on their toes; Daughters of the house Gave them haughty cheer, Laughed to scorn their vows, Down the old house goes ! Doorway high the box In the grass-plot spreads; It has borne its locks Through a thousand snows; In an evil day, From those garden-beds Now 'tis hacked away, Down the old house goes ! Lo ! the sycamores, Scathed and scrawny mates, At the mansion doors Shiver, full of woes; 35 NEW JERSEY With its life they grew, Guarded well its gates; Now their task is through, Down the old house goes ! On this honored site Modern trade will build, What unseemly fright Heaven only knows ! Something peaked and high, Smacking of the guild: Let us heave a sigh, Down the old house goes ! Edmund Clarence Stedman. The Spur of Monmouth ^y *^> <^> <^ (Monmouth) "TWAS a little brass half-circlet, * Deep gnawed by rust and stain, That the farmer's urchin brought me, Plowed up in old Monmouth's plain ; On that spot where the hot June sunshine Once a fire more deadly knew, And a bloodier color reddened Where the red June roses blew; Where the moon of the early harvest Looked down through the shimmering leaves, And saw where the reaper of battle Had gathered his human sheaves: MONMOUTH 351 Old Monmouth, so touched with glory, So tinted with burning shame, As Washington's pride we remember, Or Lee's long-tarnished name. 'Twas a little brass half-circlet; And knocking the rust away, And clearing the ends and the middle From their burial-shroud of clay, I saw, through the damp of ages, And the thick, disfiguring grime, The buckle-heads and the rowel Of a spur of the olden time. And I said, "What gallant horseman, Who revels and rides no more, Perhaps twenty years back, or fifty, On his heel that weapon wore ? Was he riding away to his bridal, When the leather snapped in twain ? Was he thrown, and dragged by the stirrup, With the rough stones crushing his brain ?" Then I thought of the Revolution, Whose tide still onward rolls; Of the free and the fearless riders, Of the "times that tried men's souls." What if, in the day of battle That raged and rioted here, 352 NEW JERSEY It had dropped from the foot of a soldier, As he rode in his mad career ? What if it had ridden with Forman, When he leaped through the open door, With the British dragoon behind him, In his race o'er the granary-floor ? What if but the brain grows dizzy With the thoughts of the rusted spur What if it had fled with Clinton, Or charged with Aaron Burr ? But bravely the farmer's urchin Had been scraping the rust away; And, cleaned from the soil that swathed it, The spur before me lay. Here are holes in the outer circle; No common heel it has known, For each space, I see by the setting, Once held some precious stone. And here, not far from the buckle Do my eyes deceive their sight? Two letters are here engraven, That initial a hero's might ! " G. W. ! " Saints of heaven ! Can such things in our lives occur ? Do I grasp such a priceless treasure ? Was this George Washington's spur ? MONMOUTH 353 Did the brave old Pater Patriae Wear that spur, like a belted knight, Wear it, through gain and disaster, From Cambridge to Monmouth fight ? Did it press his steed in hot anger On Long Island's day of pain ? Did it drive him at terrible Princeton 'Tween two streams of leaden rain ? And here did the buckles loosen, And no eye look down to see, When he rode to blast with the lightning The defiant eyes of Lee ? Did it fall, unfelt and unheeded, When that fight of despair was won, And Clinton, worn and discouraged, Crept away at the set of the sun ? The lips have long been silent That could send an answer back; And the spur, all broken and rusted, Has it forgotten its rider's track ? I only know that the pulses Leap hot, and the senses reel, When I think that the Spur of Monmouth May have clasped George Washington's heel! Henry Morford. 354 DELAWARE DELAWARE Peach-Blossoms -x> ^> <^ ^> *^> T IGHTLY the hoar-frost freezes *-* The young grass of the field, Nor yet have blander breezes The buds of the oak unsealed; Not yet pours out the vine His airy resinous wine; But over the southern slope The wands of the peach-tree first Into rosy beauty burst; A breath, and the sweet buds ope ! A day, and the orchards bare, Like maids in haste to be fair, Lightly themselves adorn With a scarf the Spring at the door Has sportively flung before, Or a stranded cloud of the morn ! * * # * * Afar, through the mellow hazes Where the dreams of June are stayed, The hills, in their vanishing mazes, Carry the flush, and fade ! Southward they fall, and reach To the bay and the ocean beach, Where the soft, half-Syrian air Blows from the Chesapeake's Inlets, coves, and creeks On the fields of Delaware ! PENNSYLVANIA 355 And the rosy lakes of flowers, That here alone are ours, Spread into seas that pour Billow and spray of pink, Even to the blue wave's brink, All down the Eastern Shore! ***** Bayard Taylor. PENNSYLVANIA From The Pennsylvania Pilgrim <^> <^x- (Pennsylvania) 1VTEVER in tenderer quiet lapsed the day * ^ From Pennsylvania's vales of spring away, Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay Along the wedded rivers. One long bar Of purple cloud, on which the evening star Shone like a jewel on a scimitar, Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deep Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep, The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep. All else was still. The oxen from their plows Rested at last, and from their long day's browse Came the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows. 356 PENNSYLVANIA And the young city, round whose virgin zone The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown, Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone, Lay in the distance, lovely even then With its fair women and its stately men Gracing the forest court of William Penn, Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims, And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names. ***** Was it caressing air, the brooding love Of tenderer skies than German land knew of, Green calm below, blue quietness above, Still flow of water, deep repose of wood That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood And childlike trust in the Eternal Good, Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate, Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait The slow assurance of the better state ? Who knows what goadings in their sterner way O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay ? PENNSYLVANIA 357 What hate of heresy the east-wind woke ? What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke In waves that on their iron coast-line broke ? Be it as it may; within the Land of Penn The sectary yielded to the citizen, And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men. Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung The air to madness, and no steeple flung Alarums down from bells at midnight rung. x The land slept well. The Indian from his face Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase, Or wrought for wages at the white man's side, Giving to kindness what his native pride And lazy freedom to all else denied. And well the curious scholar loved the old Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold, Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true To God and man than half the creeds he knew. 358 PENNSYLVANIA The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled, Beneath the warm wind, waves of green and gold; The planted ear returned its hundredfold. Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun. About each rustic porch the humming-bird Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred, , The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred; And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending, Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine, Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine, And all the subtle scents the woods combine. Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm, Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel Of labor, winding off from memory's reel A golden thread of music. With no peal PENNSYLVANIA 359 Of bells to call them to the house of praise, The scattered settlers through green forest-ways Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim Shade of the alders on the rivulet's rim, Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him. There, through the gathered stillness multiplied And made intense by sympathy, outside The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried, A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume Breathed through the open windows of the room From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom. Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors came, Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame, Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame, Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread In Indian isles: pale women who had bled Under the hangman's lash, and bravely said God's message through their prison's iron bars; And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars From every stricken field of England's wars. 360 PENNSYLVANIA Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt On his moved lips the seal of silence melt. Or, without spoken words, low breathings stole Of a diviner life from soul to soul, Baptizing in one tender thought the whole. When shaken hands announced the meeting o'er, The friendly group still lingered at the door, Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maid Down the green vistas of the woodland strayed, Whispered and smiled and oft their feet delayed. Did the boy's whistle answer back the thrushes ? Did light girl laughter ripple through the bushes As brooks make merry over roots and rushes ? Unvexed the sweet air seemed. Without a wound The ear of silence heard, and every sound Its place in nature's fine accordance found. And solemn meeting, summer sky and wood, Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood Seemed, like God's new creation, very good ! ***** John Greenleaf Whiltier, PHILADELPHIA 361 From Evangeline ^> ^> <^> <^ (.Philadelphia) TN that delightful land which is washed by the -^ Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo 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. There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descend- ants. 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; 362 PHILADELPHIA And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE SOUTH I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns; They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses; They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten; They are proud of their name and place, but their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality. Henry -van Dyke. O Magnet-South ^> <^> <^> <^ <^> ^> WINGED mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! For such thou art by day but all night long Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. Richard Henry Wilde. 368 THE SOUTH MARYLAND Barbara Frietchie -x> <^x ^* *o -^ <^ (Frederick City) T TP from the meadows rich with corn, ^ Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; FREDERICK CITY 369 Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. "Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast, "Fire!" out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; 370 THE SOUTH The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word: "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on !" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! WASHINGTON 371 Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town ! John Greenleaf Whittier. DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA The White House by Moonlight*^ ^> <^> (Washington) A SPELL of fine soft weather. I wander about ** a good deal, sometimes at night under the moon. To-night took a long look at the Presi- dent's house. The white portico the palace-like, tall, round columns, spotless as snow the walls also the tender and soft moonlight, flooding the pale marble, and making peculiar faint languish- ing shades, not shadows everywhere a soft trans- parent hazy, thin, blue moon-lace, hanging in the air the brilliant and extra-plentiful clusters of gas, on and around facade, columns, portico, etc. everything so white, so marbly pure and dazzling, yet soft the White House of future poems, and of dreams and dramas, there in the soft and copious moon the gorgeous front, in the trees, under the lustrous flooding moon, full of 372 THE SOUTH reality, full of illusion the forms of the trees, leaf- less, silent, in trunk and myriad-angles of branches under the stars and sky the White House of the land, and of beauty and night sentries at the gates, and by the portico, silent, pacing there in blue overcoats. Walt Whitman. VIRGINIA Pocahontas ^> <^> <^> <^> <^> <^y "\ 1 7EARIED arm and broken sword * * Wage in vain the desperate fight : Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark ! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still. Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light. Oh ! 'tis hard to die of fire ! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien, and proud, And his breast is bared to die. THE POTOMAC RIVER 373 Who will shield the fearless heart? Who avert the murderous blade ? From the throng, with sudden start, See there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight, "Loose the chain, unbind the ring, I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right ! " Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted ax and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life ! In the woods of Powhattan, Still 'tis told by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman. William Makepeace Thackeray. All Quiet Along the Potomac <^> -^> ^ (The Potomac River) " A LL quiet along the Potomac," they say, ** "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 374 THE SOUTH All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, For their mother; may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, The footstep is lagging and weary; MOUNT VERNON 375 Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was it the night- wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? It looked like a rifle . . . " Ha ! Mary, good-bye ! " The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night; No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead The picket's off duty forever ! Ethel Lynn Beers. Washington <^> <^> ^> ^o> *^> <^> (Ml. Vernoti) \\ THERE may the wearied eye repose * * When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state ? Yes one the first the last the best The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate. Bequeath the name of Washington, To make men blush there was but one ! Lord Byron. 376 THE SOUTH Mount Vernon <^> ^x <^> <^ ^> <^>. Written at Mt. Vernon, August, 1786. "D Y broad Potomac's azure tide, ^ Where Vernon's mount, in sylvan pride, Displays its beauties far, Great Washington, to peaceful shades, Where no unhallowed wish invades, Retired from fields of war. Angels might see, with joy, the sage, Who taught the battle where to rage, Or quenched its spreading flame, On works of peace employ that hand, Which waved the blade of high command, And hewed the path to fame. Let others sing his deeds in arms, A nation saved, and conquest's charms: Posterity shall hear, 'Twas mine, returned from Europe's courts, To share his thoughts, partake his sports, And soothe his partial ear. To thee, my friend, these lays belong: Thy happy seat inspires my song, With gay, perennial blooms, With fruitage fair, and cool retreats, Whose bowery wilderness of sweets The ambient air perfumes. MOUNT VERNON 377 Here spring its earliest buds displays, Here latest on the leafless sprays The plumy people sing; The vernal shower, the ripening year, The autumnal store, the winter drear, For thee new pleasures bring. Here, lapped in philosophic ease, Within thy walks, beneath thy trees, Amidst thine ample farms, No vulgar converse heroes hold, But past or future scenes unfold, Or dwell on nature's charms. What wondrous era have we seen, Placed on this isthmus, half between A rude and polished state ! We saw the war tempestuous rise, In arms a world, in blood the skies, In doubt an empire's fate. The storm is calmed, serened the heaven, And mildly o'er the climes of even Expands the imperial day: "O God, the source of light supreme, Shed on our dusky morn a gleam, To guide our doubtful way ! THE SOUTH " Restrain, dread Power, our land from crimes 1 What seeks, though blest beyond all times, So querulous an age ? What means to freedom such disgust; Of change, of anarchy the lust, The fickleness and rage?" So spake his country's friend, with sighs, To find that country still despise The legacy he gave, And half he feared his toils were vain, And much that man would court a chain, And live through vice a slave. A transient gloom o'ercast his mind; Yet, still on providence reclined, The patriot fond believed, That power benign too much had done, To leave an empire's task begun, Imperfectly achieved. Thus buoyed with hope, with virtue blest, Of every human bliss possessed, He meets the happier hours: His skies assume a lovelier blue, His prospects brighter rise to view, And fairer bloom his flowers. David Humphreys. DISMAL SWAMP 379 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp ^ ^ <^> (Dismal Sivamf) They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses. HPHEY made her a grave, too cold and damp -* For a soul so warm and true: And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. "And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of Death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! 380 THE SOUTH And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear?" He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played, "Welcome," he said, "my dear-one's light !" And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid. Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more. But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! Thomas Moore. CHARLESTOWN 381 Brown of Ossawatomie <^ <^y ^> <^>- -^x (Charlestown) JOHN BROWN of Ossawatomie spake on his J dying day: "I will not have, to shrive my soul, a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!" John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo ! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. .. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child ! The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent ! 382 THE SOUTH Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good! Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood ! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Chris- tian's sacrifice. Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free- winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, To teach that right is more .than might, and jus- tice more than mail ! So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love ! John Greenleaf Whittier. HAMPTON ROADS 383 The Cumberland *o <^> <^> *Q> <^> <^y (Hampton Roads) A T arTchor in Hampton Roads we lay, '*"* On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. 384 THE SOUTH "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam ! . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. GLYNN 385 GEORGIA The Marshes of Glynn l <^> (~* LOOMS of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided V^ and woven With intricate shades of the vines that myriad- cloven Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, Emerald twilights, Virginal shy lights, Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, Of the heavenly woods and glades, That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, 1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 386 THE SOUTH Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good; O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did shine Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a- wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, And my heart is at ease from men, and the weari- some sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn GLYNN 387 Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnam- able pain Drew over me out of the merciless width of the plain, Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face The vast sweet visage of space. To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, For a mete and a mark To the forest-dark: So: Affable live-oak, bending low Thus with your favor soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) Swinging your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 388 THE SOUTH Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines linger and curl As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky ! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist- high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main. Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discus- sion of sin, By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. GLYNN 389 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing- withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer your- selves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the favor of God: I will fly in the favor of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a hold on the favor of God. Oh, like to the favor of God, for the largeness within, Is the range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood of the tide must be: * 39 THE SOUTH Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate chan- nels that flow Here and there, Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the high-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow. Farewell, my lord Sun ! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that nestward whir: Passeth, and all is still: and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be ! The tide is in his ecstasy. The tide is at his highest height: And it is night. And now from the vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep ' Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken CHATTAHOOCHEE RIVER 391 The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep ? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn. Sidney Lanier. O' Song of the Chattahoochee l *z> <^> <^x (Cliattahoochee River) \UT of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall. All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried Abide, abide, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 392 THE SOUTH And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall. High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall. And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet, and amethyst Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall. But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall FLORIDA 393 Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valley of Hall. Sidney Lanier. FLORIDA Down the Bayou *o ^> <^ -^y *o <^> A SCENT of guava-blossoms and the smell *^; Of bruised grass beneath the tamarind- trees; The hurried humming of belated bees With pollen-laden thighs; far birds that tell With faint, last notes of night's approaching spell, While smoke of supper-fires the low sun sees Creep through the roofs of palm, and on the breeze Floats forth the message of the evening bell. Our footsteps pause, we look toward the west, And from my heart throbs out one fervent prayer: O love ! O silence ! ever to be thus, A silence full of love and love its best, Till in our evening years we two shall share Together, side by side, life's Angelus ! Mary Ashley Townsend. Tampa Robins 1 <^> -v> <^x <^> ^ ^> (Tampa) HPHE robin laughed in the orange-tree: -* "Ho, windy North, a fig for thee: While breasts are red and wings are bold And green trees wave us globes of gold, Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me Sunlight, song, and the orange- tree. 1 From Poems oj Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. LOUISIANA 395 Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, My orange-planets: crimson I Will shine and shoot among the spheres (Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) And thrid the heavenly orange-tree With orbits bright of minstrelsy. If that I hate wild winter's spite The gibbet trees, the world in white, The sky but gray wind over a grave Why should I ache, the season's slave ? I'll sing from the top of the orange- tree Gramercy, winter's tyranny. I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime; My wing is king of the summer-time; My breast to the sun his torch shall hold; And I'll call down through the green and gold Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, Bestir thee'under the orange-tree. Sidney Lanier. LOUISIANA In Louisiana *o <^x <^> ^ <^> <^x <^> '"THE long, gray moss that softly swings -*- In solemn grandeur from the trees, Like mournful funeral draperies, A brown-winged bird that never sings. 396 THE SOUTH A shallow, stagnant, inland sea, Where rank swamp grasses wave, and where A deadliness lurks in the air, A sere leaf falling silently. The death-like calm on every hand, That one might deem it sin to break, So pure, so perfect, these things make The mournful beauty of this land. Albert Bigelow Paine. From Evangeline<^ <^> <^> <^ (Bayou Plaquemine) WARD o'er sunken sands, through a wil- derness somber with forests, Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 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. BAYOU PLAQUEMINE 397 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of 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 where reigns perpetual summer, Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, 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 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient 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 demo- niac laughter. 398 THE SOUTH 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. ***** 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. Wide through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 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 rever- berant branches; But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, ATCHAFALAYA LAKES 399 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, Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. From Evangeline<^> < ^> *z> *^x <^ {Atchafalaya Lakes) BEFORE them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atcha- falaya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undu- lations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. Faint was the air with the odorous breath of mag- nolia blossoms, And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, 400 THE SOUTH Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 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. 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. Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. ATCHAFALAYA LAKES 401 Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 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, Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- bering maiden. 402 THE SOUTH 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 ! 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 credu- lous fancy ! Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, "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 anchor is hidden. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. TEXAS 403 Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, On the banks 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; 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 Louisiana." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. TEXAS From Kit Carson s Ride ^> <^y ( The Plains) "X "X TE lay low in the grass on the broad plain * ^ levels, Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride; And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brown And beautiful clover were welded as one, To the right and the left, in the light of the sun. 404 THE SOUTH " Forty full miles if a foot to ride, Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerked at his steed And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground; Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride, While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed, " Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed you if ever for life you would speed, And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride! For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And feet of wild horses hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore, While the buffalo come like a surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire." TEXAS 405 We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers, Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colt's, the companions of years, Cast the silken scrapes to the wind in a breath, And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse, As bare as when born, as when new from the hand Of God, without word, or one word of command. Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death, Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course; Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky, Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse. Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low call Of love-note or courage; but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 406 THE SOUTH With the "heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows : Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mus- tang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang, And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles ! . . . thirty miles ! . . . a dim distant speck. . . Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight, I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping TEXAS 407 Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, A terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher. And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his mane, Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back" to my thighs; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes, With a longing and love, yet a look of despair And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell 408 THE SOUTH Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead. Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head, With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bribe, Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me. For he was her father's, and at South Santafee Had once won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown. And so when I won the true heart of my bride, My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe, She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side; And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side, And await her, and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell TEXAS 409 From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape a love a desire Yet never a word, not one look of appeal, Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight. Then the rushing of fire around me and under, And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thun- der, Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them, and wove her Red hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died, Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone . . . And into the Brazos. . .1 rode all alone, All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. ***** Joaguin Miller. FROM TENNESSEE TO THE NORTHWEST Along the buffalo paths, from one salt-lick to another, a group of pioneers took a vagrant way through the dense cane- brakes. Never a wheel had then entered the deep forests of this western wilderness; the frontiersman and the pack horse were comrades. Dark, gloomy, with long, level summit-lines, a grim outline of the mountain range, since known as the Cumberland, stretched from northeast to southwest, seeming as they approached to interpose an insurmountable barrier to further progress, until suddenly, as in the miracle of a dream, the craggy wooded heights showed a gap, cloven to the heart of the steeps, opening out their path as through some splendid gateway, and promising deliverance, a new life and a new and beautiful land. For beyond the darkling cliffs on either hand an illuminated vista stretched in every lengthening perspective, with softly nestling sheltered valleys, and parallel lines of dis- tant azure mountains, and many a mile of level woodland high on an elevated plateau, all bedight in the lingering flare of the yellow, and deep red, and sere brown of late autumn, and all suffused with an opaline haze and the rich, sweet languors of sunset-tide on an Indian-summer day. C. E. Craddock. TENNESSEE October in Tennessee *o> <^> ^> R, far away, beyond a hazy height, The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep; Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white, Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, October robes the weeds in purple gowns; He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold, And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. The straggling fences all are interlaced With pink and purple morning-glory blooms; The starry asters glorify the waste, While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes. Yet still amid the splendor of decay The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead, The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away, The lovely summer songsters that have fled. 413 414 TENNESSEE And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines, And all the glories of her golden sheaves. In vain October wooes her to remain Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain, And weep no more above her faded flowers. At last November, like a conqueror, comes To storm the golden city of his foe; We hear his rude winds like the roll of drums, Bringing their desolation and their woe. The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, The forest flames with blazes red as blood, A conflagration sweeping to the sky. Then all the treasures of that brilliant state Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; October, like a King resigned to fate, Dies hi his forests with their sunset fire. Walter M alone. KENTUCKY 415 KENTUCKY My Old Kentucky Home ^x <^x ^> ^ ' I "HE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright; By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! CHORUS. Weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more to-day! We '11 sing one song for my old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow where all was delight; 41 6 INDIANA The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Weep no more, my lady, etc. The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the field where the sugar-cane grow; A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter it will never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Weep no more, my lady, etc. Stephen C. Foster. INDIANA Indiana <^y-^>^<^<^><^><^x<^* LAND of Rivers ! Moving down Slow through forest, farm, and town, With his tributary streams, Beautiful in glooms and gleams, Flows the Wabash ! Yonder, see, Sinking fathoms under ground, The Lost River, lost and found, From its grave beneath the plain Springing into life again. Land of Rivers ! Hail to thee ! INDIANA 417 Land of Forests ! Wide thy vast Centennial oaks their shadows cast, In whose gnarled and hollow trunks Hive the bees, like cloistered monks, Singing their low litany. Through the openings far and near Stalks, as through a park, the deer, And in autumn fiery red Glows the foliage overhead. Land of Forests ! Hail to thee ! Land of Meadows ! where the flowers On their dials count the hours, And the lowland landscape breaks Into little sylvan lakes, Garlanded with shrub and tree; Where the maize for miles and miles Lifts its green, cathedral aisles, And the endless fields of wheat Ripen in the harvest heat. Land of Meadows ! Hail to thee ! Land of Caverns ! Who knows not Thy wondrous Cave of Wyandot? Leagues of chambers glimmering far, With their fretted roofs of spar. What compared with this, are ye, 418 INDIANA Grottos of the Illyrian land? Nature on a scale more grand Laid the timbers of these floors, Arched these halls and corridors, Land of Caverns ! Hail to thee ! Anonymous. The Wabash <^> ^ ^ *o> ^y <^, <^y ""THERE is a river singing in between * Bright fringes of papaw and sycamore, That stir to fragrant winds on either shore, Where tall blue herons stretch lithe necks, and lean Over clear currents flowing cool and thin Through the clean furrows of the pebbly floor. My own glad river ! though unclassic, still Haunted of merry gods, whose pipings fill With music all thy golden willow brakes ! Above thee Halcyon lifts his regal crest; The tulip- tree flings thee its flower-flakes; The tall flag over thee its lances shakes: With every charm of beauty thou art blest, O happiest river of the happy West ! Maurice Thompson. TAILHOLT 419 The Little Town o' Tailholt l ^> *z> \7X)U kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy *- growth and size, And brag about yer county-seats, and business enterprise, And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me! You can harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds, And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds; You kin talk about yer theatres, and all you've got to see But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me! They haint no style in our town hit's little-like and small They haint no churches, nuther, ' jes the meetin'- house is all; They's no sidewalks, to speak of but the high- way's allus free, And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me! 1 From Ajte-whi'es, copyright, 1898. Used by special permission of the publishers The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 420 ILLINOIS Some finds its discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit, To hev but one postoffice, and a womern keepin' hit, And the drugstore, and shoeshop, and grocery, all three But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me! You kin smile, and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun, And laugh and holler "Tail-holts is better holts 'n none!" Ef the city suits you better, w'y, hits where you'd orto' be, But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me! * James Whitcomb Riley. ILLINOIS Illinois ^><^ < ^> x ^y^> T^AMILIAR to the childish mind were tales *- Of rock-girt isles amid a desert sea, Where unexpected stretch the flowery vales To soothe the shipwrecked sailor's misery. Fainting, he lay upon a sandy shore, And fancied that all hope of life was o'er; But let him patient climb the frowning wall, ILLINOIS 421 Within, the orange glows beneath the palm-tree tall, And all that Eden boasted waits his call. Almost these tales seem realized to-day, When the long dulness of the sultry way, Where independent settlers' careless cheer Made us indeed feel we were strangers here, Is cheered by sudden sight of this fair spot, On which improvement yet has made no blot, But Nature all astonished stands, to find Her plan protected by the human mind. Blest be the kindly genius of the scene: The river, bending in unbroken grace; The stately thickets, with their pathways green; Fair lonely trees, each in its fittest place. Those thickets haunted by the deer and fawn ; Those cloudlike flights of birds across the lawn; The gentlest breezes here delight to blow, And sun and shower and star are emulous to deck the show. Wondering, as Crusoe, we survey the land; Happier than Crusoe we, a friendly band: Blest be the hand that reared this friendly home, The heart and mind of him to whom we owe Hours of pure peace such as few mortals know; May he find such, should he be led to roam, 422 ILLINOIS Be tended by such ministering sprites, Enjoy such gayly childish days, such hopeful nights. And yet, amid the goods to mortals given, To give those goods again is most like Heaven. Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Chicago ^> <^x <^> <^> <^> (Springfield) Read before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University A/TAY one who fought in honor for the South *** Uncovered stand and sing by Lincoln's grave? Why, if I shrunk not at the cannon's mouth, Nor swerved one inch for any battle-wave, Should I now tremble in this quiet close, Hearing the prairie wind go lightly by From billowy plains of grass and miles of corn, While out of deep repose The great sweet spirit lifts itself on high And broods above our land this summer morn ? ***** Meseems I feel his presence. Is he dead ? Death is a word. He lives and grander grows. At Gettysburg he bows his bleeding head; He spreads his arms where Chickamauga flows, SPRINGFIELD 425 As if to clasp old soldiers to his breast, Of South or North no matter which they be, Not thinking of what uniform they wore, His heart a palimpsest, Record on record of humanity, Where love is first and last forevermore. ***** He was the Southern mother leaning forth, At dead of night to hear the cannon roar, Beseeching God to turn the cruel North And break it that her son might come once more; He was New England's maiden pale and pure, Whose gallant lover fell on Shiloh's plain; He was the mangled body of the dead; He writhing did endure Wounds and disfigurement and racking pain, Gangrene and amputation, all things dread. He was the North, the South, the East, the West, The thrall, the master, all of us in one; There was no section that he held the best; His love shone as impartial as the sun; And so revenge appealed to him in vain, He smiled at it, as at a thing forlorn, And gently put it from him, rose and stood A moment's space in pain, Remembering the prairies and the corn And the glad voices of the field and wood. 426 ILLINOIS And then when Peace set wing upon the wind And northward flying fanned the clouds away, He passed as martyrs pass. Ah, who shall find The chord to sound the pathos of that day! Mid-April blowing sweet across the land, New bloom of freedom opening to the world, Loud paeans of the homeward-looking host, The salutations grand From grimy guns, the tattered flags unfurled; And he must sleep to all the glory lost! Sleep! loss! But there is neither sleep nor loss, And all the glory mantles him about; Above his breast the precious banners cross, Does he not hear his armies tramp and shout ? Oh, every kiss of mother, wife or maid Dashed on the grizzly lip of veteran, Conies forthright to that calm and quiet mouth, And will not be delayed, And every slave, no longer slave but man, Sends up a blessing from the broken South. He is not dead, France knows he is not dead; He stirs strong hearts in Spain and Germany, In far Siberian mines his words are said, He tells the English Ireland shall be free, He calls poor serfs about him in the night, THE SANGAMON RIVER 427 And whispers of a power that laughs at kings, And of a force that breaks the strongest chain; Old tyranny feels his might Tearing away its deepest fastenings, And jeweled sceptres threaten him in vain. Years pass away, but freedom does not pass, Thrones crumble, but man's birthright crumbles not, And, like the wind across the prairie grass, A whole world's aspirations fan this spot With ceaseless panting after liberty, One breath of which would make dark Russia fair, And blow sweet summer through the exile's cave, And set the exile free; For which I pray, here in the open air Of Freedom's morning-tide, by Lincoln's grave. Maurice Thompson. The Painted Cup 1 <^> ^> ^> ^> <^> <^> ( The Sangamon River) fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the painted cup. 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. 428 ILLINOIS Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted thus To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well, Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone, Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine, let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew William Cidlen Bryant. T THE KANKAKEE RIVER 429 " Mark " <^> -^> <^> ^> ( The Kankakee River) "HE heavy mists have crept away, Heavily swims the sun, And dim in mystic cloudlands gray The stars fade one by one; Out of the dusk enveloping Come marsh and sky and tree, Where erst has rested night's dark ring Over the Kankakee. "Mark right!" Afar and faint outlined A flock of mallards fly, We crouch within the reedy blind Instantly at the cry. "Mark left!" We peer through wild rice- blades, And distant shadows see, A wedge-shaped phalanx from the shades Of far-off Kankakee. " Mark overhead !" A canvas-back! "Mark! mark!" A bunch of teal ! And swiftly on each flying track Follows the shotgun's peal; Thus rings that call, till twilight's tide Rolls in like some gray sea, And whippoorwills complain beside The lonely Kankakee. Ernest McGaffey, 430 ILLINOIS O On the Bluff <^ <^y <^> ( The Mississippi River) GRANDLY flowing river I O silver-gliding river ! Thy springing willows shiver In the sunset as of old ; They shiver in the silence Of the willow-whitened islands, While the sun-bars and the sand-bars Fill air and wave with gold. O gay, oblivious river ! O sunset-kindled river ! Do you remember ever The eyes and skies so blue On a summer day that shone here, When we were all alone here, And the blue eyes were too wise To speak the love they knew? O stern impassive river ! O still unanswering river ! The shivering willows quiver As the night-winds moan and rave. From the past a voice is calling, From heaven a star is falling, And dew swells in the bluebells Above her hillside grave. John Hay. THE PRAIRIE 431 The Prairie *^> <^> ^> ^ *c> HPHE skies are blue above my head, *- The prairie green below, And flickering o'er the tufted grass The shifting shadows go, Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds Fleck white the tranquil skies, Black javelins darting where aloft The whirring pheasant flies. A glimmering plain in drowsy trance The dim horizon bounds, Where all the air is resonant With sleepy summer sounds, The life that sings among the flowers, The lisping of the breeze, The hot cicala's sultry cry, The murmurous dream of bees. The butterfly a flying flower Wheels swift in flashing rings, And flutters round his quiet kin, With brave flame-mottled wings. The wild pinks burst in crimson fire, The phlox' bright clusters shine, And prairie-cups are swinging free To spill their airy wine. 432 ILLINOIS And lavishly beneath the sun, In liberal splendor rolled, The fennel fills the dipping plain With floods of flowery gold; And widely weaves the iron-weed A woof of purple dyes Where Autumn's royal feet may tread When bankrupt Summer flies. In verdurous tumult far away The prairie-billows gleam, Upon their crests in blessing rests The noontide's gracious beam. Low quivering vapors steaming dim The level splendors break Where languid lilies deck the rim Of some land-circled lake. Far in the east like low-hung clouds The waving woodlands lie; Far in the west the glowing plain Melts warmly in the sky. No accent wounds the reverent air. No footprint dints the sod, Lone in the light the prairie lies, Wrapt in a dream of God. John Hay. RACINE 433 WISCONSIN From The Racine College Memorial Ode <^> (Racine) "D ACINE: Unto her feet from the far North ** A living amethystine sea comes forth, Sleeping to-day in splendor, thundering To-morrow 'gainst the bluffs, a lustful thing Bent on destruction; yet with outspread wing Ships pass, a mighty navy laden deep Upon the waves, awakened or asleep. Embowering all its resonant shores are set Huge forests where are met In tints of malachite and chrysoprase A myriad tossing, plumy sprays Of tremulous poplar, and the choiring pine, The whispering alder, black-stoled oak, The stately walnut in her emerald cloak, And fragrant birch, as pale and fine As studious youth. To swell this azure sea The river runs, a city fair Beside the pleasant waters meeting there, As cunning workmen set a gem To mark the joining of a diadem. And here the vast-horizoned prairies come, Full, multitudinous, with the busy hum Of insects, and the mating songs of birds, And flashes of bright blossoms, lowing herds, And clustering farmsteads filled with happy folk - Wallace Rice. 434 WISCONSIN The Four Lakes of Madison <^> <^> - (Madison) ~CX)UR limpid lakes, four Naiades * Or sylvan deities are these, In flowing robes of azure dressed; Four lovely handmaids that uphold Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, To the fair city in the West. By day the coursers of the Sun Drink of these waters as they run Their swift, diurnal round on high; By night the constellations glow Far down the hollow deeps below, And glimmer in another sky. Fair lakes, serene and full of light, Fair town, arrayed in robes of white, How visionary ye appear ! All like a floating landscape seems In cloud-land or the land of dreams, Bathed in a golden atmosphere! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. IN MICHIGAN 435 MICHIGAN In Michigan CLOW-YIELDING Nymphs *-? Evade unpandered Satyrs here, And sands unconquered laugh at man's invention : Bright clouds drive darker shadows, And the bay-breeze bears heavy odors Odor-offerings oi ragged pine And spruce. The white birch single on the hillside, The hemlocks and I Are friends In Michigan. Nature's fingers Seem to play upon my strings In minor harmonies up here Where shells of convents shelter Echoes only, And the last Indian has laid His flints and legends On the grave-mound of the older time In Michigan. Ivan Swift. 436 ' LAKE SUPERIOR LAKE SUPERIOR From Hiawatha ^> *o> *o ^> -x> ( The Grand Sable) '"PHEN the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, *- He the idle Yenadizze, He the merry mischief-maker, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, Rose among the guests assembled. Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, In the merry dance of snow-shoes, In the play of quoits and ball-play; Skilled was he in games of hazard, In all games of skill and hazard, Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, Called him coward, Shaugodaya, Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, Little heeded he their jesting, Little cared he for their insults, For the women and the maidens Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, White and soft, and fringed with ermine, All inwrought with beads of wampum; He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, THE GRAND SABLE, LAKE SUPERIOR 437 And in moccasins of buck-skin, Thick with quills and beads embroidered. On his head were plumes of swan's down, On his heels were tails of foxes, In one hand a fan of feathers, And a pipe was in the other. Barred with streaks of red and yellow, Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. From his forehead fell his tresses, Smooth, and parted like a woman's, Shining bright with oil, and plaited, Hung with braids of scented grasses, As among the guests assembled, To the sound of flutes and singing, To the sound of drums and voices, Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, And began his mystic dances. First he danced a solemn measure, Very slow in step and gesture, In and out among the pine-trees, Through the shadows and the sunshine, Treading softly like a panther, Then more swiftly and still swifter, Whirling, spinning round in circles, Leaping o'er the guests assembled, Eddying round and round the wigwam, Till the leaves went whirling with him, Till the dust and wind together Swept in eddies round about him. 438 LAKE SUPERIOR Then along the sandy margin Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, On he sped with frenzied gestures, Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it Wildly in the air around him; Till the winds became a whirlwind, Till the sand was blown and sifted Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. From Hiawatha *z> <^> <^ <^> <^ ( The Pictured Rocks, Lake Superior) \\ riTH his right hand Hiawatha * Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, Rent it into shreds and splinters, Left it lying there in fragments. But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, Once again in human figure, Full in sight ran on before him, Sped away in gust and whirlwind, On the shores of Gitche Gumee, Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, Came unto the rocky headlands, To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, Looking over lake and landscape. THE PICTURED ROCKS, LAKE SUPERIOR 439 And the Old Man of the Mountain, He the Manito of Mountains, Opened wide his rocky doorways, Opened wide his deep abysses, Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter In his caverns dark and dreary, Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. There without stood Hiawatha, Found the doorways closed against him, With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Smote great caverns in the sandstone, Cried aloud in tones of thunder, "Open! I am Hiawatha!" But the Old Man of the Mountain Opened not, and made no answer From the silent crags of sandstone, From the gloomy rock abysses. Then he raised his hands to heaven, Called imploring on the tempest, Called Waywassimo, the lightning, And the thunder, Annemeekee; And they came with night and darkness, Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water From the distant Thunder Mountains; And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis Heard the footsteps of the thunder, Saw the red eyes of the lightning, Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 440 LAKE SUPERIOR Then Waywassimo, the lightning, Smote the doorways of the caverns, With his war-club smote the doorways, Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, And the thunder, Annemeekee, Shouted down into the caverns, Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis ? " And the crags fell, and beneath them Dead among the rocky ruins Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, Lay the handsome Yenadizze, Slain in his own human figure. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Hiawatha's Departure <^> <^ o -v> < (Lake Superior) the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him, through the sunshine, Westward through the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing in the sunshine. LAKE SUPERIOR 441 Bright above him shone the heavens, Level spread the lake before him; From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree- top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As the fog from off the water, As the mist from off the meadow. With a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation, As of one who in a vision Sees what is to be, but is not, Stood and waited Hiawatha. Toward the sun his hands were lifted, Both the palms spread out against it, And between the parted fingers Fell the sunshine on his features, Flecked with light his naked shoulders, As it falls and flecks an oak-tree Through the rifted leaves and branches. O'er the water floating, flying, Something in the hazy distance, Something in the mists of morning, Loomed and lifted from the water, Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 442 LAKE SUPERIOR Was it Shingebis the diver ? Or the pelican, the Shada ? Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? Or the white goose, Wah-be-wawa, With the water dripping, flashing, From its glossy neck and feathers ? It was neither goose nor diver, Neither pelican nor heron, O'er the water floating, flying, Through the shining mist of morning But a birch canoe with paddles, Rising, sinking on the water, Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; And within it came a people From the distant land of Wabun, From the farthest realms of morning, Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, With his guides and his companions. And the noble Hiawatha With his hands aloft extended, Held aloft in sign of welcome, Waited, full of exultation, Till the birch canoe with paddles Grated on the shining pebbles, Stranded on the sandy margin, Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, With the cross upon his bosom, Landed on the sandy margin. LAKE SUPERIOR 443 Then the joyous Hiawatha, Cried aloud and spake in this wise: "Beautiful is the sun, strangers, When you come so far to see us ! All our town in peace awaits you, All our doors stand open for you; You shall enter all our wigwams, For the heart's right hand we give you. "Never bloomed the earth so gayly, Never shone the sun so brightly, As to-day they shine and blossom When you come so far to see us ! Never was our lake so tranquil, Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars; For your birch canoe in passing Has removed both rock and sand-bar. "Never before had our tobacco Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, Never the broad leaves of our cornfields Were so beautiful to look on, As they seem to us this morning, When you come so far to see us !" And the Black-Robe chief made answer, Stammered in his speech a little, Speaking words yet unfamiliar: "Peace be with you, Hiawatha, Peace be with you and your people, Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!" 444 LAKE SUPERIOR Slowly o'er the simmering landscape Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, And the long and level sunbeams Shot their spears into the forests, Breaking through its shields of shadow, Rushed into each secret ambush, Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; Still the guests of Hiawatha Slumbered in the silent wigwam. From his place rose Hiawatha, Bade farewell to old Nokomis, Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, Did not wake the guests, that slumbered: "I am going, O Nokomis, On a long and distant journey, To the portals of the Sunset, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. But these guests I leave behind me, In your watch and ward I leave them; See that never harm comes near them, See that never fear molests them, Never danger nor suspicion, Never want of food or shelter, In the lodge of Hiawatha!" Forth into the village went he, Bade farewell to all the warriors, Bade farewell to all the young men, Spake persuading, spake in this wise: LAKE SUPERIOR 445 "I am going, O my people, On a long and distant journey; Many moons and many winters Will have come, and will have vanished, Ere I come again to see you. But my guests I leave behind me; Listen to their words of wisdom, Listen to the truth they tell you, For the Master of Life has sent them From the land of light and morning!" On the shore stood Hiawatha, Turned and waved his hand at parting; On the clear and luminous water Launched his birch canoe for sailing, From the pebbles of the margin Shoved it forth into the water; Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!" And with speed it darted forward. And the evening sun descending Set the clouds on fire with redness, Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, Left upon the level water, One long track and trail of splendor, Down whose stream, as down a river, Westward, westward Hiawatha Sailed into the fiery sunset, Sailed into the purple vapors, Sailed into the dusk of evening. 446 LAKE SUPERIOR And the people from the margin Watched him floating, rising, sinking, Till the birch canoe seemed lifted High into that sea of splendor, Till it sank into the vapors Like the new moon slowly, slowly Sinking in the purple distance. . And they said, "Farewell forever!" Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" And the forests, dark and lonely, Moved through all their depths of darkness, Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" And the waves upon the margin Rising, rippling on the pebbles, Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her haunts among the fen-lands, Screamed, "Farewell, Hiawatha!" Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, . In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE MINNESOTA WATER-SHED 447 MINNESOTA The Two Streams <^> *^> ^ <^> ( The Minnesota Water-shed) "DEHOLD the rocky wall -^ That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending as they fall, In rushing river-tides! Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebble's edge, Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge. The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon. So from the heights of Will Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each-widening torrent bends, 448 MINNESOTA From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee, One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. T From Hiawatha <^> <^ ( The Falls of Minnehaha) ""HIS was Hiawatha's wooing ! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying: "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us! THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA 449 Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger !" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE WEST Room! Room to turn round in, to breathe and be free, And to grow .to be a giant, to sail as at sea With the speed of the wind on a steed with his mane To the wind, without pathway or route or a rein. Room! Room to be free where the white-bordered sea Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he; And to east and to west, to the north and the sun, Blue skies and brown grasses are welded as one, And the buffalo come like a cloud on the plain, Pouring on like the tide of a storm-driven main, And the lodge of the hunter to friend or to foe Offers rest; and unquestioned you come or you go. My plains of America! Seas of wild lands! From a land in the seas in a raiment of foam, That has reached to a stranger the welcome of home, I turn to you, lean to you, lift you my hands. Joaquin Miller. 451 From Evangeline <^> ^> <^> <^x <^> ( The Far West) "C*AR in the West there lies a desert land, where -*- the mountains Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and lumi- nous summits. 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; 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, Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. Spreading between these streams are the won- drous, beautiful prairies, 453 454 THE WEST Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them wander the wolves, and herds of rider- less horses; Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ish- maeFs children, Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vul- ture, Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heav- ens. 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, THE WEST 455 While over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. From Passage to India <^> ^> <^ -o> (The West) T SEE over my own continent the Pacific rail- * road surmounting every barrier, I see continual trains of cars winding along the Platte carrying freight and passengers, I hear the locomotives rushing and roaring, and the shrill steam- whistle, I hear the echoes reverberate through the grandest scenery in the world, I cross the Laramie plains, I note the rocks in gro- tesque shapes, the buttes, I see the plentiful larkspur and wild onions, the barren, colorless, sage-deserts, I see in glimpses afar or towering immediately above me the great mountains, I see the Wind river and the Wahsatch mountains, I see the Monument mountain and the Eagle's Nest, I pass the Promontory, I ascend the Nevadas, I scan the noble Elk mountain and wind around its base, 456 THE WEST I see the Humboldt range, I thread the valley and cross the river, I see the clear waters of lake Tahoe, I see forests of majestic pines, Or crossing the great desert, the alkaline plains, I behold enchanting mirages of waters and meadows, Marking through these and after all, in duplicate slender lines, Bridging the three or four thousand miles of land travel, Tying the Eastern to the Western sea, The road between Europe and Asia. Walt Whitman. Pioneers <^> ^> ^> *^> <^> <^> <^> HPHEY rise to mastery of wind and snow; -*- They go like soldiers grimly into strife To colonize the plain. They plough and sow, And fertilize the sod with their own life, As did the Indian and the buffalo. Hamlin Garland. From The River and I <^> <^> <^> ^> <^ (The Missouri River) *T*HE Missouri is unique among rivers. I think * God wished to teach the beauty of a virile soul fighting its way toward peace and His pre- cept was the Missouri. To me, the Amazon is THE MISSOURI RIVER 457 a basking alligator; the Tiber is a dream of dead glory; the Rhine is a fantastic fairy-tale; the Nile, a mummy, periodically resurrected; the Mississippi, a convenient geographical boundary line; the Hudson, an epicurean philosopher. But the Missouri my brother is the eternal Fighting Man ! Not only in its physical aspect does the Mis- souri appeal to the imagination. From Three Forks to its mouth a distance of three thousand miles this zigzag watercourse is haunted with great memories. Perhaps never before in the his- tory of the world has a river been the thorough- fare of a movement so tremendously epic in its human appeal, so vastly significant in its relation to the development of man. And in the building of the continent, Nature fashioned well the scenery for the great human story that was to be enacted here in the fulness of years. She built her stage on a large scale, taking no account of miles; for the coming actors were to be big men, mighty travel- ers, intrepid fighters, laughers at time and space. Plains, limited only by the rim of sky; mountains, severe, huge, tragic as fate; deserts for the trying of strong spirits; grotesque volcanic lands dead, utterly ultra-human where athletic souls might struggle with despair; impetuous streams with their rapids terrible as Scylla, where men might go down fighting: thus Nature built the stage and THE WEST set the scenes. And that the arrangements might be complete, she left a vast tract unfinished, where still the building of the world goes on a place of awe in which to feel the mighty Doer of Things at work. John G. Neihardt, The Prairies lx o> *o *^y <^ <^y *^> <^> 'T'HESE are the Gardens of the Desert, these -* The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name, The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless forever. Motionless ? No, they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! That toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poelica' Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. THE PRAIRIES 459 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not, ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific, have ye fanned A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ? Man hath no part in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky, With flowers whose glory and whose multitude Rival the constellations ! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above the eastern hills. As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides, The hollow beating of his footstep seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here, The dead of other days ? and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise 460 THE WEST In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them; a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came, The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where .they dwelt. The prairie wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone, All, save the piles of earth that hold their bones, The platforms where they worshiped unknown gods, The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay, till o'er the walls THE PRAIRIES 461 The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchers, And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget yet ne'er forgot the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of God Fills them or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face, among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, He rears his little Venice. In these plains 462 THE WEST The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty, leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps, yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshipers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone. William Cullen Bryant. THE PRAIRIES 463 The Hunter of the Prairies 1 *^y <^x -^> A Y, this is freedom ! these pure skies ** Were never 'stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies, Is breathed from wastes by plow unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed, And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed In the green desert and am free. For here the fair savannas know No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures, measureless as air, The bison is my noble game; The bounding elk, whose antlers tear The branches, falls before my aim. Mine are the river-fowl that scream From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam, Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she- wolf stands at bay; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey, Even in the act of springing, dies. 1 Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton and Company. 464 THE WEST With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here, With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky; I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die. Here, from dim woods, the aged past Speaks solemnly; and I behold The boundless future in the vast And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? Broad are these streams my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. THE PLAINS 465 Wide are these woods I tread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and glassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. William Cullen Bryant. Crossing the Plains <^> <^x ^ *^> <^> VX7HAT great yoked brutes with briskets low, * With wrinkled necks like buffalo, With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, That turned so slow and sad to you, That shone like love's eyes soft with tears, That seemed to plead, and iiiake replies, The while they bowed their necks and drew The creaking load; and looked at you. Their sable briskets swept the ground, Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. Two sullen bullocks led the line, Their great eyes shining bright like wine; Two sullen captive kings were they, That had in time held herds at bay, And even now they crushed the sod With stolid sense of majesty, And stately stepped and stately trod, As if 'twere something still to be Kings even in captivity. Joaquin Miller. 466 TH WEST SOUTH DAKOTA Dakota <^* -v> <^> ^> ^> <^> <^> OEA-LIKE in billowy distance, far away *"^ The half-broke prairies stretch on every hand; How wide the circuit of their summer day What measureless acres of primeval land, Treeless and birdless, by no eyesight spanned ! Looking along the horizon's endless line Man seems a pygmy in these realms of space ; No segment of our planet so divine Turns up such beauty to the moon's fair face! Here are soft grasses, flowers of tender hue, Palimpsests of the old and coming race, Vistas most wonderful, and vast and new; And see above where giant lightnings play, From what an arch the sun pours forth the day ! Joel Benton. O 1 From Hiawatha <^ (Cdteau des Prairies) |N the Mountains of the Prairie, On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, Gitche Manito, the Mighty, He the Master of Life, descending, On the red crags of the quarry Stood erect, and called the nations, Called the tribes of men together. COTEAU DES PRAIRIES 467 From his footprints flowed a river, Leaped into the light of morning, O'er the precipice plunging downward Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. And the Spirit, stooping earthward, With his finger on the meadow Traced a winding pathway for it, Saying to it, "Run in this way !" From the red stone of the quarry With his hand he broke a fragment, Molded it into a pipe-head, Shaped and fashioned it with figures; From the margin of the river Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, With its dark green leases upon it; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, With the bark of the red willow; Breathed upon the neighboring forest, Made its great boughs chafe together, Till in flame they burst and kindled; And erect upon the mountains, Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, As a signal to the nations. And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness, Then a denser, bluer vapor, 468 THE WEST Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forests, Ever rising, rising, rising, Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, And rolled outward all around it. From the Vale of Tawasentha, From the Valley of Wyoming, From the groves of Tuscaloosa, From the far-off Rocky Mountains, From the Northern lakes and rivers All the tribes beheld the signal, Saw the distant smoke ascending, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. And the Prophets of the nations Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana! By this signal from afar off, Bending like a wand of willow, Waving like a hand that beckons, Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Calls the tribes of men together, Calls the warriors to his council!" Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, Came the warriors of the nations, Came the Delawares and Mohawks, Came the Choctaws and Camanches, Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, Came the Pawnees and Omahas, Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, COTEAU DES PRAIRIES 469 Came the Hurons and Ojibways, All the warriors drawn together By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, To the Mountains of the Prairie, To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. And they stood there on the meadow, With their weapons and their war-gear, Painted like the leaves of Autumn, Painted like the sky of morning, Wildly glaring at each other; In their faces stern defiance, In their hearts the feuds of ages, The hereditary hatred, The ancestral thirst of vengeance. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, The Creator of the nations, Looked upon them with compassion, With paternal love and pity; Looked upon their wrath and wrangling But as quarrels among children, But as feuds and fights of children! Over them he stretched his right hand, To subdue their stubborn natures, To allay their thirst and fever, By the shadow of his right hand; Spake to them with voice majestic As the sound of far-off waters, Falling into deep abysses, Warning, chiding, spake in this wise: 470 THE WEST "O my children ! my poor children ! Listen to the words of wisdom, Listen to the words of warning, From the lips of the Great Spirit, From the Master of Life, who made you. "I have given you lands to hunt in, I have given you streams to fish in. I have given you bear and bison, I have given you roe and reindeer, I have given you brant and beaver, Filled the marshes full of wildfowl, Filled the rivers full of fishes; Why then are you not contented ? Why then will you hunt each other ? "I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions; All your strength is in your union, All your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together. "I will send a Prophet to you, A Deliverer of the nations, Who shall guide you and shall teach you, Who shall toil and suffer with you. If you listen to his counsels, You will multiply and prosper; If his warnings pass unheeded, You will fade away and perish ! COTEAU DES PRAIRIES 471 " Bathe now in the stream before you, Wash the war-paint from your faces, Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, Break the red stone from this quarry, Mold and make it into Peace-Pipes, Take the reeds that grow beside you, Deck them with your brightest feathers, Smoke the calumet together, And as brothers live henceforward ! " Then upon the ground the warriors Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, Threw their weapons and their war-gear, Leaped into the rushing river, Washed the war-paint from their faces. Clear above them flowed the water, Clear and limpid from the footprints Of the Master of Life descending; Dark below them flowed the water, Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, As if blood were mingled with it ! From the river came the warriors, Clean and washed from all their war-paint; On the banks their clubs they buried, Buried all their warlike weapons. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, The Great Spirit, the Creator, Smiled upon his helpless children ! And in silence all the warriors Broke the red stone of the quarry, 472 THE WEST Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, Broke the long reeds by the river, Decked them with their brightest feathers, And departed each one homeward, While the Master of Life, ascending, Through the opening of cloud-curtains, Through the doorways of the heaven, Vanished from before their faces, In the smoke that rolled around him, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. On a South Dakota Farm in March (South Dakota) HPHE West Wind takes his wide-mouthed horn -* And blows and blows till from his throat Come mellow chords of the crystal morn, Come surging strain and a haunting note. Round and round goes the singing sound From the blue-bell sky to the humming ground, Of sun, sun, wind and sun, For down the world the springtides run, And frost is fled and sprays show red And the bitter days of the snows are dead. In the shocks of corn a long fine strain As if on airy viols made SOUTH DAKOTA 473 Comes welling up and faints again Till oboes in the brown weeds played, Or brimming stream, take up the theme Of boundless plain and golden gleam, Of wind, wind, sun and wind! For the cold is spent and the clouds are thinned, Now frost is fled and sunrise red And the gray old ghost of the winter dead. So note by note soars up the tune, Through stubble field, through fringing brush, With hints of April and hopes of June, Sonorous chantings and solemn hush. The trumps breathe low, the clarions blow, As up the sky the crimsons grow, Of sun, sun, the wind and the sun; Lo ! these are the glories great March hath won Now frost is fled and buds look red And the long dull night of the year is sped. The strain makes pause, the reeds are mute, And a meadow-lark from a furrow near, A soul upborne on the song of a flute, Pours out his rapture, faint but clear, And the West Wind lets his great horn slip And listens, finger slant on lip. Brown, brown, gold and brown, Woven close where the fields run down, 474 THE WEST Warp and woof of the mad month's gown For all her purples are gold and brown. Gold, gold, blue and gold: These are the colors that the snow foretold. The soul of Spring in the streams of old Made love to her image in blue and gold. The prairie-chickens wheel and whir, Brown and bright in the slant sun's ray; The sap in the cottonwood's astir, The creek goes tinkling the livelong day; So wild wings thrum an elfin drum, And gleeful sounds the wind-mill's hum, For the corn, the corn, the sun on the corn, And the scent of summer on the long winds borne; Now frost is fled and from southland led The breast of the robin glimmers red. And attuned to all with its tiny tone, Some dainty hand on its trembling strings, A last year's alder, left alone, As on a harp adagio rings; The horns reply from the faultless sky .As down dun fields the measures fly. For oh, oh, the corn in the sun ! Blow loud for the things the earth has done SOUTH DAKOTA 475 Since frost is fled and the winter dead And the grass up many a hollow makes head. Soon as these cease the lark resumes Its liquid warble, keen and strong, Of coming clover and wild rose blooms, Sun and wind and cloud in a song, And a hush spreads on the glistening plain To hear him carol loud again: Blue, blue, gold and blue ! And what are these when the leaves come new ? Green and gold are the colors true When the corn flags drip with the August dew. Green, green, gold and green, And dark red corn-silk in between. When the waves of the yellow wheat are seen Who thinks what the colors of March may mean ? For all the music of the wind Green, green, gold and green; For all the glories by trumpets dinned Who thinks what the color of March may mean ? Charles Edward Russell. 476 THE WEST THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS Moonrise in the Rockies 1 <^> <^> <^* <^> HPHE trembling train clings to the leaning wall * Of solid stone; a thousand feet below Sinks a black gulf; the sky hangs like a pall Upon the peaks of everlasting snow. Then of a sudden springs a rim of light, Curved like a silver sickle. High and higher Till the full moon burns on the breast of night, And a million firs stand tipped with lucent fire. Ella Higginson. WASHINGTON Mount Rainier <^> <^> ^> ^ <^x <^> T ONG hours we toiled up through the solemn * ' wood Beneath moss-banners stretched from tree to tree; At last upon a barren hill we stood And, lo, above loomed Majesty ! Herbert Bashford. 1 Copyright, 1898, by The Macmillan Company. MOUNT RAINIER 477 i Mount Rainier : A Fragment <^> <^> *^> COMETHING untrodden in the routine dust *^ Of unconcerned humanity, something Unclaimed, some spot yet sacred, undefiled, Above, beyond the daily round of form, Still native, free, and pure such seekest thou, idle dreamer ? Yonder turn thy gaze To that intrepid peak which fills the sky; To human eyes still changeful, whether in The hueless lights of cold and unsunned dawn, Or in the warmer tints of brilliant sunsets; Yet endlessly the same, uplifted aye, Unmoved, most strong, unmindful of the storms Of human fate and human destiny. Fact visible of God invisible, And mile-post of His ways, perpetual And snowy tabernacle of the land; While purples at thy base this peaceful sea, And all thy hither slopes in evening bathe, 1 hear soft twilight voices calling down From all thy summits unto prayer and love. . . . Francis Brooks. 478 THE WEST OREGON The Grand Ronde Valley *^> <^> <^> *^> A H, me ! I know how like a golden flower ** The Grand Ronde valley lies this August night, Locked in by dimpled hills where purple light Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour Sink downward, like a rainbow-tinted shower, A thousand colored rays, soft, changeful, bright. Later the large moon rises, round and white, And three Blue Mountain pines against it tower, Lonely and dark. A coyote's mournful cry Sinks from the canon, whence the river leaps A blade of silver underneath the moon. Like restful seas the yellow wheat-fields lie, Dreamless and still. And while the valley sleeps, hear ! the lullabies that low winds croon. Ella Higginson. CALIFORNIA California <^x <^> <^> <^> <^ <^> <^y T STAND beside the mobile sea; And sails are spread, and sails are furled From farthest corners of the world, And fold like white wings wearily. Steamships go up, and some go down In haste, like traders in a town, And seem to see and beckon all. CALIFORNIA 479 Afar at sea some white shapes flee, With arms stretched like a ghost's to me, And cloud-like sails far blown and curled, Then glide down to the under- world. As if blown bare in winter blasts Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts Are rising from the restless sea, So still and desolate and tall, I seem to see them gleam and shine With clinging drops of dripping brine. Broad still brown wings flit here and there, Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere, And white wings whistle through the air; I hear a thousand sea-gulls call. Behold the ocean on the beach Kneel lowly down as if in prayer. I hear a moan as of despair, While far at sea do toss and reach Some things so like white pleading hands. The ocean's thin and hoary hair Is trailed along the silvered sands, At every sigh and sounding moan. 'Tis not a place for mirthfulness, But meditation deep, and prayer, And kneelings on the salted sod, Where man must own his littleness And know the mightiness of God. The very birds shriek in distress And sound the ocean's monotone. 480 THE WEST Dared I but say a prophecy, As sang the holy men of old, Of rock-built cities yet to be Along these shining shores of gold, Crowding athirst into the sea, What wondrous marvels might be told ! Enough, to know that empire here Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; Here art and eloquence shall reign, As o'er the wolf- reared realm of old; Here learned and famous from afar, To pay their noble court, shall come, And shall not seek or see in vain, But look on all with wonder dumb. Afar the bright Sierras lie A swaying line of snowy white, A fringe of heaven hung in sight Against the blue base of the sky. I look along each gaping gorge, I hear a thousand sounding strokes Like giants rending giant oaks, Or brawny Vulcan at his forge ; I see pickaxes flash and shine And great wheels whirling in a mine. Here winds a thick and yellow thread, A mossed and silver stream instead; And trout that leaped its rippled tide Have turned upon their sides and died. CALIFORNIA WINTER 481 Lo ! when the last pick in the mine Is rusting red with idleness, And rot yon cabins in the mold, And wheels no more croak in distress, And tall pines reassert command, Sweet bards along this sunset shore Their mellow melodies will pour; Will charm as charmers very wise, Will strike the harp with master hand, Will sound unto the vaulted skies The valor of these men of old, The mighty men of 'Forty-nine; Will sweetly sing and proudly say, Long, long agone there was a day When there were giants in the land. Joaquin Miller. California Winter <^> ^x ^ HPHIS is not winter: where is the crisp air, * And snow upon the roof, and frozen ponds, And the star-fire that tips the icicle ? Here blooms the late rose, pale and odorless; And the vague fragrance in the garden walks Is but a doubtful dream of mignonette. In some smooth spot, under a sleeping oak That has not dreamed of such a thing as spring, The ground has stolen a kiss from the cool sun And thrilled a little, and the tender grass 482 THE WEST Has sprung untimely, for these great bright days, Staring upon it, will not let it live. The sky is blue, and 'tis a goodly time, And the round, barren hillsides tempt the feet; But 'tis not winter: such as seems to man What June is to the roses, sending floods Of life and color through the tingling veins. It is a land without a fireside. Far Is the old home, where, even this very night, Roars the great chimney with its glorious fire, And old friends look into each other's eyes Quietly, for each knows the other's trust. Heaven is not far away such winter nights: The big white stars are sparkling in the east, And glitter in the gaze of solemn eyes; For many things have faded with the flowers, And many things their resurrection wait; Earth like a sepulcher is sealed with frost, And Morn and Even beside the silent door Sit watching, and their soft and folded wings Are white with feathery snow. Yet even here We are not quite forgotten by the Hours, Could human eyes but see the beautiful Save through the glamour of a memory. Soon comes the strong south wind, and shouts aloud Its jubilant anthem. Soon the singing rain THE MARIPOSA LILY 483 Comes from warm seas, and in its skyey tent Enwraps the drowsy world. And when, some night, Its flowing folds invisibly withdraw, Lo ! the new life in all created things. The azure mountains and the ocean gates Against the lovely sky stand clean and clear As a new purpose in the wiser soul. Edward Rowland Sill. The Mariposa Lily <^> <^y ^ <^> <^> INSECT or blossom ? Fragile, fairy thing, -*- Poised upon slender tip, and quivering To flight! a flower of the fields of air; A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare And tender tints upon his downy wing, A moment resting in our happy sight; A flower held captive by a thread so slight Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer Are, light as the wind, with every wind astir, Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite. O dainty nursling of the field and sky, What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew ? Thou winged bloom ! thou blossom-butterfly ! Ina Coolbrith. 484 THE WEST Rio Sacramento <^> <^> o <^> <^> < C ACRAMENTO ! Sacramento, ^ Down the rough Nevada foaming, Fain my heart would join thy water In its glad, impetuous roaming, For thy valley's fairest daughter Watches oft to see thee coming ! Sacramento ! Sacramento ! From the shining threads that wove thee, From the mountain woods that darken All the mountain heaven above thee, Teach her ear thy song to hearken, And, for what it says, to love thee ! Sacramento ! Sacramento ! Lead me downward to the glory Of thy green and flowery meadows; I will leave the deserts hoary, For thy grove of quiet shadows And my love's impassioned story. Sacramento ! Sacramento ! Every dancing rainbow broken When thy falling waves are shattered, Is a glad and beckoning token Of the hopes so warmly scattered And the vows that we have spoken ! NEAR SAN FRANCISCO 485 Sacramento ! Sacramento ! She, beside thee, waits my coming; Teach my step thy bounding fleetness, Towards the bower of beauty roaming, Where she stands, in maiden sweetness, Gazing idly on thy foaming ! Bayard Taylor. From The Silverado Squatters <^> <^> <^> (Near San Francisco) "C^ARLY the next morning we mounted the hill * ' along a wooden footway, bridging one mar- ish spot after another.. Here and there, as we ascended, we passed a house embowered in white roses. More of the bay became apparent, and soon the blue peak of Tairalpais rose above the green level of the island opposite. It told us we were still but a little way from the city of the Golden Gates, already, at that hour, beginning to awake among the sand-hills. It called to us over the waters as with the voice of a bird. Its stately head, blue as a sapphire on the paler azure of the sky, spoke to us of wider outlooks and the bright Pacific. For Tamalpais stands sentry, like a light- house, over. the Golden Gates, between the bay and the open ocean, and looks down indifferently on both. Even as we saw and hailed it from Val- lejo, seamen, far out at sea, were scanning it with 486 THE WEST shaded eyes; and, as if to answer to the thought, one of the great ships below began silently to clothe herself with white sails, homeward bound for England. Robert Louis Stevenson. As I Came Down Mount Tamalpais <^> {Mount Tamalpais) A S I came down Mount Tamalpais, ** To north the fair Sonoma Hills Lay like a trembling thread of blue Beneath a sky of daffodils; Through tules green a silver stream Ran south to meet the tranquil bay, Whispering a dreamy, tender tale Of vales and valleys far away. As I came down Mount Tamalpais, To south the city brightly shone, Touched by the sunset's good-night kiss Across the golden ocean blown; I saw its hills, its tapering masts, I almost heard its tramp and tread, And saw against the sky the cross Which marks the City of the Dead. As I came down Mount Tamalpais To east San Pablo's water lay, SAN FRANCISCO 487 Touched with a holy purple light, The benediction of the day; No ripple on its twilight tide, No parting of its evening veil, Save dimly in the far-off haze One dreamy, yellow sunset sail. As I came down Mount Tamalpais, To west Heaven's gateway opened wide, And through it, freighted with day-cares, The cloud-ships floated with the tide; Then, silently through stilly air, Starlight flew down from Paradise, Folded her silver wings and slept Upon the slopes of Tamalpais. Clarence Urmy. From The Hermitage <^> <^ (San Francisco) HPHROUGH the sharp gap of the gorge below, *- From my mountain's feet the gaze may go Over a stretch of fields, broad-sunned, Then glance beyond, Across the beautiful bay, To that dim ridge, a score of miles away, Lifting its clear-cut outline high, Azure with distance on the azure sky, 488 THE WEST Whose flocks of white clouds brooding on its crests Have winged from ocean to their piny nests. Beyond the bright blue water's further rim, Where waves seem ripples in its far-off brim, The rich young city lies, Diminished to an ant-hill's size. I trace its steep streets, ribbing all the hill Like narrow bands of steel, Binding the city on the shifting sand: Thick-pressed between them stand Broad piles of buildings, pricked through here and there By a sharp steeple; and above, the air Murky with smoke and dust, that seem to show The bright sky saddened by the sin below. Edward Rowland Sill. Alcatraz ^> ^y ^ <^x ^ (San Francisco Bay) PEARL foam at his feet The waters rise and fall: The sentry treads his beat Upon the gun-girt wall. A Bronzed of visage he, Stern, resolute as fate; Guard of the inner sea, Grim warden of the Gate. SAN FRANCISCO BAY 489 Born of some mighty throe From earth's abysmal deep, When aeons long ago, The Dragon stirred in sleep. Yet over him, merrily, The winds blow East, blow West,- The gulls about him fly, The fog-king wreathes his crest. All day sea-melodies Blend with the oarsman's stroke, In the Fleet of the Butterflies, The craft of the fisher-folk. Then boom of the sunset gun, The flash of the beacon-light, Leaping a warning sun To passing ships of night. And the fleets of all the world Salute him as they pass, Viking of seas empearled, The warrior, Alcatraz. Ina Coolbrith. 490 THE WEST Presidio de San Francisco 1800 ^o> i T OOKING seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands - 1 ' the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed; All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away, And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wander- ing eye, Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old; SAN FRANCISCO 491 Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust, Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and^ trust. n Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon are. He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state; He, from grave provincial magnates, oft had turned to talk apart With the Commandante's daughter, on the ques- tions of the heart, Until points of gravest import yielded slowly, one by one, And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun; Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar; 492 THE WEST Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, And, from sally-port and gateway, north the Russian eaglee flew. m Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar; Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow empty breeze, Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas; Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks, - Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks; Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce southwester tost, Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost. So each year the seasons shifted; wet and warm and drear and dry; Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky. SAN FRANCISCO 493 Still it brought no ship nor message, brought no tidings ill nor meet For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze, Still she lost him with the folding of the great white- tented seas; Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down; Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infan- tine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar; 494 THE WEST Bits of ancient observation by his fathers gar- nered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech: "'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he'; 'Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree.' '"He that getteth himself honey, though a clown he shall have flies'; 'In the end God grinds the miller'; 'In the dark the mole has eyes.' '"He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial hath no fear,' And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wis- dom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech; And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and " Conchita" he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. SAN FRANCISCO 495 So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. IV Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade, Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid; Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rus- tic sport; Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind; Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet, Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet; So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay scrapes blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. 496 THE WEST Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more with patient mien The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine, Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the Cali- fornia seas. Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its' slow but sure decay; And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey. And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulation with the English baronet; SAN FRANCISCO 497 Till the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine Some one spoke of Concha's lover, heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray. He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course ! " Lives she yet ? " A death-like silence fell on ban- quet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awe-struck gaze of all. Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed be- neath the nun's white hood; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. "Lives she yet? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire. "Sefior, pardon, she died too ! " Bret Harte. 498 THE WEST The Angelus *o *^> <^ <^ ^> (San Francisco) Heard at the Mission Dolores, 1868. T) ELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With colors of romance: I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices blending Girdle the heathen land. Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past, I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last ! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow. SAN JOAQUIN 499 Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting The freighted galleon. O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses Recall the faith of old, O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold ! Your voices break and falter in the darkness, Break, falter, and are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill ! Bret Harte. The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin <^> ( San Joaquin) all the fountains that poets sing, Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth; Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth; In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. Anno Domini Eigh teen-seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven, Obiit Eighteen twenty-seven) 500 THE WEST Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast a descendant of Balaam's ass- Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then, as the chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer, His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet-pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so: And all were ailing, strange to say, From Pescadero to Monterey. SAN JOAQUIN 501 Over the mountain they poured in With leathern bottles, and bags of skin; Through the canons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. The fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then a result perhaps foreseen They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. Not in the eyes of Faith alone The good effects of the waters shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vaquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out Limbs grew supple, and waists grew Stout; And as for the girls, for miles about They had no equal ! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin. There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this: None went abroad to roam or stay, But they fell sick in the queerest way, A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content; 502 THE WEST Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green, Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. Winter passed, and the summer came: The trunks of madrono all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended, And dim and ghost-like far away The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam, The ridge above Los Gatos creek * Arched its spine in a feline fashion; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and nevermore was seen! Two days passed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke. Some of them looked a trifle white; But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. CALAVERAS 503 Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week, here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis, Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. Bret Harte. On a Cone of the Big Trees ( Calaveras) "DROWN foundling of the Western wood, *** Babe of primeval wildernesses! Long on my table thou hast stood Encounters strange and rude caresses; Perchance contented with thy lot, Surroundings new and curious faces, As though ten centuries were not Imprisoned in thy shining cases ! Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days Of grateful rest; the week of leisure, The journey lapped in autumn haze, The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, The morning ride, the noonday halt, The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, And then the dim, brown, columned vault, With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. 504 THE WEST Once more I see the rocking masts That scrape the sky, their only tenant The jay-bird that in frolic casts From some high yard his broad blue pennant. I see the Indian files that keep Their places in the dusty heather, Their red trunks standing ankle deep In moccasins of rusty leather. I see all this, and marvel much That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able To keep the company of such As throng thy friend's the poet's table: The latest spawn the press hath cast, The "modern Pope's," "the later Byron's," Why e'en the best may not outlast Thy poor relation, Sempervirens. Thy sire saw the light that shone On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, On many a royal gilded throne And deed forgotten in the present; He saw the age of sacred trees And Druid groves and mystic larches; And saw from forest domes like these The builder bring his Gothic arches. And must thou, foundling, still forego Thy heritage and high ambition, MONTEREY 505 To lie full lowly and full low, Adjusted to thy new condition ? Not hidden in the drifted snows, But under ink-drops idly spattered, And leaves ephemeral as those That on thy woodland tomb were scattered. Yet lie thou there, friend ! and speak The moral of thy simple story: Though life is. all that thou dost seek, And age alone thy crown of glory, Not thine the only germs that fail The purpose of their high creation, If their poor tenements avail For worldly show and ostentation. Bret Harte. The Pine Forest of Monterey <^> (Monterey) \ 1( 7"HAT point of Time, unchronicled, and dim * ^ As yon gray mist that canopies your heads, Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines ? When, from the barren "bosoms of the hills, With scanty nurture, did ye slowly climb, Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores The first-born forest ? Titans gnarled and rough, 506 THE WEST Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth, What fresh commixture of the elements, What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give The hills a mantle and the wind a voice ? Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms, Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse chant, Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates touch In elder regions, fill the awful stops Between the crashing cataracts of the surf. Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of sound To syllable the secret, no still voice To give your airy myths a shadowy form, And make us of lost centuries of lore The rich inheritors ? The sea- winds pluck Your mossy beards, and gathering as they sweep, Vex your high heads, and with your sinewy arms Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar, Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells Of stormy volume, is your sole reply. Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the blast, And from the promontory's utmost verge Make signal o'er the waters. So ye stood, When, like a star, behind the lonely sea, Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's sail; MONTEREY 507 And when, through driving fog, the breaker's sound Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy breath Played as in welcome round their rusty helms, And backward from its staff shook out the folds Of Spain's emblazoned banner. Ancient Pines, Ye bear no record of the years of man. Spring is your sole historian, Spring, that paints These savage shores with hues of Paradise; That decks your branches with a fresher green, And through your lonely, far canadas pours Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye That wander down to lakes and'widening seas Of blossom and of fragrance, laughing Spring, That with her wanton blood refills your veins, And weds ye to your juicy youth again With a new ring, the while your rifted bark Drops odorous tears. Your knotty fibers yield To the light touch of her unfailing pen, As freely as the lupin's violet cup. Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of her stay, As in their shells the avelones keep Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's pearly glow. The wild northwest, that from Alaska sweeps, To drown Point Lobos with the icy scud And white sea-foam, may rend your boughs and leave Their blasted antlers tossing in the gale; 508 THE WEST Your steadfast hearts are mailed against the shock, And on their annual tablets naught inscribe Of such rude visitation. Ye are still The simple children of a guiltless soil, And in your natures show the sturdy grain That passion cannot jar, nor force relax, Nor aught but sweet and kindly airs compel To gentler mood. No disappointed heart Has sighed its bitterness beneath your shade; No angry spirit ever came to make Your silence its confessional; no voice, Grown harsh in Crime's great market-place, the \vorld, Tainted with blasphemy your evening hush And aromatic air. The deer alone, The ambushed hunter that brings down the deer, The fisher wandering on the misty shore To watch sea-lions wallow in the flood, The shout, the sound of hoofs that chase and fly, When swift vaqueros, dashing through the herds, Ride down the angry bull, perchance, the song Some Indian heired of long-forgotten sires, Disturb your solemn chorus. Stately Pines, But few more years around the promontory Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea. No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand, MONTEREY 509 Against the surf ye'll stretch defiant arm, Though with its onset and besieging shock Your firm knees tremble. Nevermore the wind Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards, Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart your heads Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past: The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth Coeval was with yours, has run its sands, And other footsteps from these changing shores Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come To vex your quiet with the din of toil; The smoky volumes of the forge will stain This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea, Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam; Through all her green cafiadas Spring will seek Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye, O mournful Pines, within her glowing arms, Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low. Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat ! Fall, Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull life Fed your belated germs, be rent and seamed ! Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, stern, unbent, Your gray beards hiding memorable scars ! The winds will mourn ye, and the barren hills Whose breast ye clothed; and when the pauses come Between the crashing cataracts of the surf, A funeral silence, terrible, profound, Will make sad answer to the listening sea. Bayard Taylor. 510 THE WEST Santa Barbara *^> <^y <^> <^> *^> <^> "DETWEEN the mountains and the sea, ^-* Walled by the rock, fringed by the foam, A valley stretches fair and free Beneath the blue of heaven's dome. At rest in that fair valley lies Saint Barbara, the beauteous maid; Above her head the cloudless skies Smile down upon her charms displayed. The sunlit mountains o'er her shed The splendor of their purple tinge; While round her like a mantle spread The blue seas with their silver fringe. Enfolded in that soothing calm, The earth seems sweet, and heaven near; The flowers bloom free, the air is balm, And summer rules the radiant year. Francis Fisher Browne. By the Pacific Ocean <^> *^> <^> <^> x ^> TTERE room and kingly silence keep * -*- Companionship in state austere; The dignity of death is here, The large, lone vastness of the deep; ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA 511 Here toil has pitched his camp to rest: The west is banked against the west. Above yon gleaming skies of gold One lone imperial peak is seen; While gathered at his feet in green Ten thousand foresters are told: And all so still ! so still the air That duty drops the web of care. Beneath the sunset's golden sheaves The awful deep walks with the deep, Where silent sea doves slip and sweep, And commerce keeps her loom and weaves, The dead red men refuse to rest; Their ghosts illume my lurid West. Joaquin Miller. On Leaving California ^> ^y <^> ^> FAIR young land, the youngest, fairest far Of which our world can boast, Whose guardian planet, Evening's silver star, Illumes thy golden coast, How art thou conquered, tamed in all the pride Of savage beauty still ! How brought, O panther of the splendid hide, To know thy master's will ! 512 THE WEST No more thou sittest on thy tawny hills In indolent repose; Or pourest the crystal of a thousand rills Down from thy house of snows. But where the wild-oats wrapped thy knees in gold, The plowman drives his share, And where, through canons deep, thy streams are rolled, The miner's arm is bare. Yet in thy lap, thus rudely rent and torn, A nobler seed shall be: Mother of mighty men, thou shalt not mourn Thy lost virginity! Thy human children shall restore the grace Gone with thy fallen pines: The wild, barbaric beauty of thy face Shall round to classic lines. And Order, Justice, Social Law shall curb Thy untamed energies; And Art and Science, with their dreams superb, Replace thine ancient ease. The marble, sleeping in thy mountains now, Shall live in sculptures rare; YUMA 513 Thy native oak shall crown the sage's brow, Thy bay, the poet's hair. Thy tawny hills shall bleed their purple wine, Thy valleys yield their oil; And Music, with her eloquence divine, Persuade thy sons to toil; Till Hesper, as he trims his silver beam, No happier land shall see, And Earth shall find her old Arcadian dream Restored again in thee ! Bayard Taylor. ARIZONA Yuma <^x <^ <^x <^> *^> *o ARY, weary, desolate, Sand-swept, parched, and cursed of fate; Burning, but how passionless ! Barren, bald, and pitiless ! Through all ages baleful moons Glared upon thy whited dunes; And malignant, wrathful suns Fiercely drank thy streamless runs; So that Nature's only tune Is the blare of the simoon, 514 THE WEST Piercing burnt unweeping skies With its awful monodies. Not a flower lifts its head Where the emigrant lies dead; Not a living creature calls Where the Gila Monster crawls, Hot and hideous as the sun, To the dead man's skeleton; But the desert and the dead, And the hot hell overhead, And the blazing, seething air, And the dread mirage are there. Charles Henry P helps. Arizona <^ <^> *^> <^> (The Plains of Arizona) TTHOU white and dried-up sea ! so old ! * So strewn with wealth, so sown with gold ! Yes, thou art old and hoary white With time, and ruin of all things; And on thy lonesome borders night Sits brooding o'er with drooping wings. The winds that tossed thy waves, and blew Across thy breast the flowing sail, And cheered the hearts of cheering crew From further seas, no more prevail. THE PLAINS OF ARIZONA 515 Thy white-walled cities all lie prone, With but a pyramid, a stone, Set head and foot in sands to tell The tired stranger where they fell. The patient ox thai bended low His neck, and drew slow up and down Thy thousand freights through rock-built town, Is now the free-born buffalo. No longer of the timid fold, The mountain sheep leaps free and bold His high-built summit, and looks down From battlements of buried town. Thine ancient steeds know not the rein, They lord the land, they come, they go At will; they laugh at man, they blow A cloud of black steeds on the plain. Thy monuments lie buried now, The ashes whiten on thy brow, The winds, the waves have drawn away, The very wild man dreads to stay. Oh ! thou art very old. I lay, Made dumb with awe and wonderment, Beneath a palm within my tent, 516 THE WEST With idle and discouraged hands, Not many days agone, on sands Of awful, silent Africa. Long gazing on her mighty shades, I did recall a semblance there Of thee. I mused where story fades From her dark brow and found her fair. And yet my dried-up desert sea Was populous with blowing sail. And set with city, white-walled town, All manned with armies bright with mail, Ere yet that awful Sphinx sat down To gaze into eternity, Or Egypt knew her natal hour, Or Africa had name or power. Joaquin Miller. Arizona ^> <^> ^y <^> <^x <^x -o> HPHE kings of the world have waxed and died in * narrower states than mine; And realms have risen to rampant power to sink in drear decline, That were poor by the measure of my wealth the creditors of the brine. ARIZONA 517 Across my purple peaks the snows fall scant and dry away, And the bre'asts of earth that should be full are withered and rimed and gray; For the chill is mine of the dewless night till the barren, aching day. I call to my heedless, jeweled sky the shimmer- ing wanton smiles, Flinging her bacchant robes of cloud across the thirsty miles, And the intimate stars come near in the night to bare her mocking wiles. I call on his hastening trails the wind, where the mad dust-demons glide, But he answers me with the sting of a lash and only a pause to chide; And his forefront sweeps as a gloomy flame where the silence stretches wide. For I was old when the Younger Sea arose to seek my bed, And in my tale 'tis but a night that he and I were wed, For in the morn I woke again and the love of him was dead. 518 THE WEST I rose and thrust him from my side although he loved me well, And he was wroth to leave a house for the wailing winds to dwell; He cursed me with his father's curse, we strug- gled, and he fell. And on that morn across my brow he seared an open scar, As the fingers of the Younger Sea have branded with a star The brides that have one time been his, where his roving footsteps are. For I dare not show the first love's gifts to him that now is lord, As I am faithful to the Sun in all things save the hoard Of hidden gems of the banished Sea that in my breast are stored. Now since the Sun hath held me queen and kissed my lips with fire, I have risen young each morn again and robed in queen's attire, Stifling the dream of other days in the heat of his desire. Thomas Wood Stevens. THE PLAINS 519 Noon on the Plain <^> ^> ^ <^> <^y ( The Plains) TTHE horned toad creeping along the sand, -* The rattlesnake asleep beneath the sage, Have now a subtle fatal charm. In their sultry calm, their love of heat, I read once more the burning page Of nature under cloudless skies. O pitiless and splendid land! Mine eyelids close, my lips are dry By force of thy hot floods of light. Soundless as oil the wind flows by, Mine aching brain cries out for night ! Hamlin Garland. The Gift of Water * -o> ^> <^> <^ ^ (The Plains) "TS water nigh?" * The plainsmen cry, As they meet and pass in the desert grass. With finger tip Across the lip I ask the somber Navajo. The brown man smiles and answers "Sho!" With fingers high, he signs the miles To the desert spring, And so we pass in the dry dead grass, Brothers in bond of the water's ring. Hamlin Garland. 1 Copyright, 1899, by The Macmillan Company. 520 THE WEST Vaquero *o ^> <^> -v> ^ <^> *^> T_TIS broad-brimmed hat pushed back with * -* careless air, The proud vaquero sits his steed as free As winds that toss his black abundant hair. No rover ever swept a lawless sea With such a haught and heedless air as he Who scorns the path, and bounds with swift dis- dain Away, a peon born, yet born to be A splendid king; behold him ride and reign. How brave he takes his herds in branding days, On timbered hills that belt about the plain; He climbs, he wheels, he shouts through winding ways Of hiding ferns and hanging fir; the rein Is loose, the rattling spur drives swift; the mane Blows free; the bullocks rush in storms before; They turn with lifted heads, they rush again, Then sudden plunge from out the wood, and pour A cloud upon the plain with one terrific roar. Now sweeps the tawny man on stormy steed, His gaudy trappings tossed about and blown About the limbs as lithe as any reed; The swift long lasso twirled above is thrown From flying hand; the fall, the fearful groan THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL 521 Of bullock toiled and tumbled in the dust The black herds onward sweep, and all disown The fallen, struggling monarch that has thrust His tongue in rage and rolled his red eyes in dis- Joaguin Miller. THE SANTA FE TRAIL The Old Santa Fe Trail ^ <^> <^y <^> TT wound through strange scarred hills, down * canons lone Where wild things screamed, with winds for com- pany; Its milestones were the bones of pioneers. Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan, Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea : An epic quest it was of elder years, For fabled gardens or for good, red gold, The trail men strove in iron days of old. To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast, While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trains Smile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian, Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past; Dread dramas of immitigable plains Rebuke the softness of the modern man; No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand; Still westward lies a green and golden land. 522 THE WEST For at the magic touch of water, blooms The wilderness, and where of yore the yoke Tortured the toilers into dateless tombs, Lo ! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk. Richard Burton. OKLAHOMA The Last Reservation <^* ^ (Oklahoma) OULLEN and dull, in the September day, ^ On the bank of the river, They waited the boat that should bear them away From their poor homes forever. For progress strides on, and the order had gone To these wards of the nation: "Give us land and more room," was the cry, "and move on To the next reservation." With her babe, she looked back at her home 'neath the trees From which they were driven, Where the last camp-fire's smoke, borne out on the breeze, Rose slowly toward heaven. OKLAHOMA 523 Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade, The home of her nation; Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade Of civilization. Clasping clo^e to her bosom the small dusky form With tender caressing, She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warm A mother's kiss pressing. A splash in the river the column moves on Close-guarded and narrow, Noting as little the two that are gone As the fall of a sparrow. Only an Indian ! Wretched, obscure, To refinement a stranger, And a babe, that was born hi a wigwam as poor And rude as a manger. Moved on to make room for the growth in the West Of a brave Christian nation, Moved on thank God, forever at rest In the last reservation. Walter Learned. 524 THE WEST PANAMA A Song of Panama <^> ^> <^> *o <^> "f HUFF! chuff! chuff!" An' a mountain- V-r bluff Is moved by the shovel's song; " Chuff ! chuff ! chuff ! " Oh, the grade is rough A-lif tin' the landscape along ! We are ants upon a mountain, but we're leavin' of our dent, An' our teeth-marks bitin' scenery they will show the way we went; We're a-liftin' half creation, an' we're changin' it around, Just to suit our playful purpose when we're dig- gin' in the ground. " Chuff ! chuff ! chuff ! " Oh, the grade is rough, An' the way to the sea is long; "Chuff ! chuff ! chuff !" an' the engines puff In tune to the shovel's song ! We're a-shiftin' miles like inches, and we grab a forest here Just to switch it over yonder so's to leave an angle clear; PANAMA 525 We're a-pushin' leagues o' swamps aside so's we can hurry by An' if we had to do it we would probably switch the sky ! "Chuff ! chuff ! chuff !" Oh, it's hard enough When you're changin' a job gone wrong; "Chuff ! chuff ! chuff !" an' there's no rebuff To the shovel a-singin' its song ! You hears it in the mornin' an' you hears it late at night It's our battery keepin' action with support o' dynamite; Oh, you gets it for your dinner, an' the scenery skips along In a movin' panorama to the chargin' shovel's song! "Chuff ! chuff ! chuff !" an' it grabs the scruff Of a hill an' boosts it along; " Chuff ! chuff ! chuff ! " Oh, the grade is rough, But it gives to the shovel's song ! This is a fight that's fightin', an' the battle's to the death; There ain't no stoppin' here to rest or even catch your breath; 526 THE WEST You ain't no noble hero, an' you leave no gallant name You're a-fightin' Nature's army, an' it ain't no easy game ! " Chuff ! chuff ! chuff ! " Oh, the grade is rough, An' the way to the end is long, "Chuff! chuff! chuff!" an' the engines puff As we lift the landscape along ! Alfred Damon Runyon. DELIGHTFUL ANTHOLOGIES POEMS FOR TRAVELERS Compiled by MARY R. J. DuBois. i6mo. $1.50 net, cloth; $2.50 net, leather. Covers France, Germany. Austria, Switzerland, Italy, and Greece in some three hundred poems (nearly one-third of them by Ameri- cans) from about one hundred and thirty poets. All but some forty of these poems were originally written in English. THE POETIC OLD-WORLD Compiled by Miss L. H. HUMPHREY. Covers Europe, including Spain. Belgium, and the British Isles, in some two hundred poems irom about ninety poets. Some thirty, not originally written in English, are given in both the original and the best available translation. THE OPEN ROAD A little book for wayfarers. Compiled by E. V. LUCAS. Some 125 poems from over 60 authors, including Fitzgerald, Shel- ley, Shakespeare, Kenneth Grahame, Stevenson, Whitman, Brown- ing, Keats, Wordsworth, Matthew Arnold, Tennyson, William Mor- ris, Maurice Hewlett, Isaak Walton, William Barnes, Herrick, Dob- son, Lamb, Milton, Whittier, etc., etc. THE FRIENDLY TOWN A little book for the urbane. Compiled by E. V. LUCAS. Over 200 selections in verse and prose from 100 authors, including Lowell. Burroughs, Herrick, Thackeray, Scott, .Milton, Cowley, Browning, Stevenson, Henley, Longfellow, Keats, Swift, Meredith, Lamb, Lang, Dobson, Fitzgerald, Pepys, Addison, Kemble, Boswell, Holmes, Walpole, and Lovelace. These three books are uniform, with full gilt flexible covers and pictured cover linings. i6mo. Each, cloth, $ 1.50 net; leather, $2.50 net. A BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN Over 200 poems representing some 80 authors. Compiled by E. V. LUCAS. With decorations by F. D. BEDFORD. Revised edition. $2.00. Library edition, $1.00 net. " We know of no other anthology for children so complete and well arranged. " Cr it ic. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK