Narrative Poems, part 5, Among Hill etc | Page 3

rocks and made the green?Of the shorn grass more tender.
The maples bending o'er the gate,?Their arch of leaves just tinted?With yellow warmth, the golden glow?Of coming autumn hinted.
Keen white between the farm-house showed,?And smiled on porch and trellis,?The fair democracy of flowers?That equals cot and palace.
And weaving garlands for her dog,?'Twixt chidings and caresses,?A human flower of childhood shook?The sunshine from her tresses.
Clear drawn against the hard blue sky,?The peaks had winter's keenness;?And, close on autumn's frost, the vales?Had more than June's fresh greenness.
Again the sodden forest floors?With golden lights were checkered,?Once more rejoicing leaves in wind?And sunshine danced and flickered.
It was as if the summer's late?Atoning for it's sadness?Had borrowed every season's charm?To end its days in gladness.
I call to mind those banded vales?Of shadow and of shining,?Through which, my hostess at my side,?I drove in day's declining.
We held our sideling way above?The river's whitening shallows,?By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns?Swept through and through by swallows;
By maple orchards, belts of pine?And larches climbing darkly?The mountain slopes, and, over all,?The great peaks rising starkly.
You should have seen that long hill-range?With gaps of brightness riven,--?How through each pass and hollow streamed?The purpling lights of heaven,--
On either hand we saw the signs?Of fancy and of shrewdness,?Where taste had wound its arms of vines?Round thrift's uncomely rudeness.
The sun-brown farmer in his frock?Shook hands, and called to Mary?Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came,?White-aproned from her dairy.
Her air, her smile, her motions, told?Of womanly completeness;?A music as of household songs?Was in her voice of sweetness.
Not fair alone in curve and line,?But something more and better,?The secret charm eluding art,?Its spirit, not its letter;--
An inborn grace that nothing lacked?Of culture or appliance,?The warmth of genial courtesy,?The calm of self-reliance.
Before her queenly womanhood?How dared our hostess utter?The paltry errand of her need?To buy her fresh-churned butter?
She led the way with housewife pride,?Her goodly store disclosing,?Full tenderly the golden balls?With practised hands disposing.
Then, while along the western hills?We watched the changeful glory?Of sunset, on our homeward way,?I heard her simple story.
The early crickets sang; the stream?Plashed through my friend's narration?Her rustic patois of the hills?Lost in my free-translation.
"More wise," she said, "than those who swarm?Our hills in middle summer,?She came, when June's first roses blow,?To greet the early comer.
"From school and ball and rout she came,?The city's fair, pale daughter,?To drink the wine of mountain air?Beside the Bearcamp Water.
"Her step grew firmer on the hills?That watch our homesteads over;?On cheek and lip, from summer fields,?She caught the bloom of clover.
"For health comes sparkling in the streams?From cool Chocorua stealing?There's iron in our Northern winds;?Our pines are trees of healing.
"She sat beneath the broad-armed elms?That skirt the mowing-meadow,?And watched the gentle west-wind weave?The grass with shine and shadow.
"Beside her, from the summer heat?To share her grateful screening,?With forehead bared, the farmer stood,?Upon his pitchfork leaning.
"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face?Had nothing mean or common,--?Strong, manly, true, the tenderness?And pride beloved of woman.
"She looked up, glowing with the health?The country air had brought her,?And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife,?Your mother lacks a daughter.
"'To mend your frock and bake your bread?You do not need a lady?Be sure among these brown old homes?Is some one waiting ready,--
"'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand?And cheerful heart for treasure,?Who never played with ivory keys,?Or danced the polka's measure.'
"He bent his black brows to a frown,?He set his white teeth tightly.?''T is well,' he said, 'for one like you?To choose for me so lightly.
"You think, because my life is rude?I take no note of sweetness?I tell you love has naught to do?With meetness or unmeetness.
"'Itself its best excuse, it asks?No leave of pride or fashion?When silken zone or homespun frock?It stirs with throbs of passion.
"'You think me deaf and blind: you bring?Your winning graces hither?As free as if from cradle-time?We two had played together.
"'You tempt me with your laughing eyes,?Your cheek of sundown's blushes,?A motion as of waving grain,?A music as of thrushes.
"'The plaything of your summer sport,?The spells you weave around me?You cannot at your will undo,?Nor leave me as you found me.
"'You go as lightly as you came,?Your life is well without me;?What care you that these hills will close?Like prison-walls about me?
"'No mood is mine to seek a wife,?Or daughter for my mother?Who loves you loses in that love?All power to love another!
"'I dare your pity or your scorn,?With pride your own exceeding;?I fling my heart into your lap?Without a word of pleading.'
"She looked up in his face of pain?So archly, yet so tender?'And if I lend you mine,' she said,?'Will you forgive the lender?
"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man;?And see you not, my farmer,?How weak and fond a woman waits?Behind this silken armor?
"'I love you: on that love alone,?And not my worth, presuming,?Will you not trust for summer fruit?The tree in May-day blooming?'
"Alone the hangbird overhead,?His