Poems of Nature, part 4, Snow Bound etc | Page 4

all the simple country side;?We heard the hawks at twilight play,?The boat-horn on Piscataqua,?The loon's weird laughter far away;?We fished her little trout-brook, knew?What flowers in wood and meadow grew,?What sunny hillsides autumn-brown?She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down,?Saw where in sheltered cove and bay?The ducks' black squadron anchored lay,?And heard the wild-geese calling loud?Beneath the gray November cloud.
Then, haply, with a look more grave,?And soberer tone, some tale she gave?From painful Sewell's ancient tome,?Beloved in every Quaker home,?Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom,?Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint,--?Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint!--?Who, when the dreary calms prevailed,?And water-butt and bread-cask failed,?And cruel, hungry eyes pursued?His portly presence mad for food,?With dark hints muttered under breath?Of casting lots for life or death,?Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies,?To be himself the sacrifice.?Then, suddenly, as if to save?The good man from his living grave,?A ripple on the water grew,?A school of porpoise flashed in view.?"Take, eat," he said, "and be content;?These fishes in my stead are sent?By Him who gave the tangled ram?To spare the child of Abraham."
Our uncle, innocent of books,?Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,?The ancient teachers never dumb?Of Nature's unhoused lyceum.?In moons and tides and weather wise,?He read the clouds as prophecies,?And foul or fair could well divine,?By many an occult hint and sign,?Holding the cunning-warded keys?To all the woodcraft mysteries;?Himself to Nature's heart so near?That all her voices in his ear?Of beast or bird had meanings clear,?Like Apollonius of old,?Who knew the tales the sparrows told,?Or Hermes who interpreted?What the sage cranes of Nilus said;
Content to live where life began;?A simple, guileless, childlike man,?Strong only on his native grounds,?The little world of sights and sounds?Whose girdle was the parish bounds,?Whereof his fondly partial pride?The common features magnified,?As Surrey hills to mountains grew?In White of Selborne's loving view,--?He told how teal and loon he shot,?And how the eagle's eggs he got,?The feats on pond and river done,?The prodigies of rod and gun;?Till, warming with the tales he told,?Forgotten was the outside cold,?The bitter wind unheeded blew,?From ripening corn the pigeons flew,?The partridge drummed I' the wood, the mink?Went fishing down the river-brink.?In fields with bean or clover gay,?The woodchuck, like a hermit gray,?Peered from the doorway of his cell;?The muskrat plied the mason's trade,?And tier by tier his mud-walls laid;?And from the shagbark overhead?The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.
Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer?And voice in dreams I see and hear,--?The sweetest woman ever Fate?Perverse denied a household mate,?Who, lonely, homeless, not the less?Found peace in love's unselfishness,?And welcome wheresoe'er she went,?A calm and gracious element,--?Whose presence seemed the sweet income?And womanly atmosphere of home,--?Called up her girlhood memories,?The huskings and the apple-bees,?The sleigh-rides and the summer sails,?Weaving through all the poor details?And homespun warp of circumstance?A golden woof-thread of romance.?For well she kept her genial mood?And simple faith of maidenhood;?Before her still a cloud-land lay,?The mirage loomed across her way;?The morning dew, that dries so soon?With others, glistened at her noon;?Through years of toil and soil and care,?From glossy tress to thin gray hair,?All unprofaned she held apart?The virgin fancies of the heart.?Be shame to him of woman born?Who hath for such but thought of scorn.
There, too, our elder sister plied?Her evening task the stand beside;?A full, rich nature, free to trust,?Truthful and almost sternly just,?Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,?And make her generous thought a fact,?Keeping with many a light disguise?The secret of self-sacrifice.?O heart sore-tried! thou hast the best?That Heaven itself could give thee,--rest,
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things!?How many a poor one's blessing went?With thee beneath the low green tent?Whose curtain never outward swings!
As one who held herself a part?Of all she saw, and let her heart?Against the household bosom lean,?Upon the motley-braided mat?Our youngest and our dearest sat,?Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,?Now bathed in the unfading green?And holy peace of Paradise.?Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,?Or from the shade of saintly palms,?Or silver reach of river calms,?Do those large eyes behold me still??With me one little year ago:--?The chill weight of the winter snow?For months upon her grave has lain;?And now, when summer south-winds blow?And brier and harebell bloom again,?I tread the pleasant paths we trod,?I see the violet-sprinkled sod?Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak?The hillside flowers she loved to seek,?Yet following me where'er I went?With dark eyes full of love's content.?The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills?The air with sweetness; all the hills?Stretch green to June's unclouded sky;?But still I wait with ear and eye?For something gone which should be nigh,?A loss in all familiar things,?In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.?And yet, dear heart' remembering thee,?Am I not richer than of old??Safe in thy immortality,?What change can reach the wealth I hold??What chance can mar the pearl and gold?Thy love hath left in trust with me??And