The Tent on the Beach | Page 8

to her worn young face,

And the nursing child and the mother
He folded in one embrace.
"Blessed be God!" he murmured.
"Blessed be God!" she said;
"For
I see, who once was blinded,--
I live, who once was dead.
"Now mount and ride, my goodman,
As thou lovest thy own soul

Woe's me, if my wicked fancies
Be the death of Goody Cole!"
His horse he saddled and bridled,
And into the night rode he,
Now
through the great black woodland,
Now by the white-beached sea.
He rode through the silent clearings,
He came to the ferry wide,

And thrice he called to the boatman
Asleep on the other side.
He set his horse to the river,
He swam to Newbury town,
And he
called up Justice Sewall
In his nightcap and his gown.
And the grave and worshipful justice
(Upon whose soul be peace!)

Set his name to the jailer's warrant
For Goodwife Cole's release.
Then through the night the hoof-beats
Went sounding like a flail;

And Goody Cole at cockcrow
Came forth from Ipswich jail.
1865
. . . . .
"Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare
To venture on its theme worn out;

What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr
Sounds simply silly
hereabout;
And pipes by lips Arcadian blown
Are only tin horns at

our own.
Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us,
While Hosea
Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."
THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.
Attitash, an Indian word signifying "huckleberry," is the name of a
large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury.
In sky and wave the white clouds swam,
And the blue hills of
Nottingham
Through gaps of leafy green
Across the lake were seen,
When, in the shadow of the ash
That dreams its dream in Attitash,

In the warm summer weather,
Two maidens sat together.
They sat and watched in idle mood
The gleam and shade of lake and
wood;
The beach the keen light smote,
The white sail of a boat;
Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,
In sweetness, not in music,
dying;
Hardback, and virgin's-bower,
And white-spiked
clethra-flower.
With careless ears they heard the plash
And breezy wash of Attitash,

The wood-bird's plaintive cry,
The locust's sharp reply.
And teased the while, with playful band,
The shaggy dog of
Newfoundland,
Whose uncouth frolic spilled
Their baskets
berry-filled.
Then one, the beauty of whose eyes
Was evermore a great surprise,

Tossed back her queenly head,
And, lightly laughing, said:
"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold
That is not lined with yellow
gold;
I tread no cottage-floor;
I own no lover poor.
"My love must come on silken wings,
With bridal lights of diamond
rings,
Not foul with kitchen smirch,
With tallow-dip for torch."

The other, on whose modest head
Was lesser dower of beauty shed,

With look for home-hearths meet,
And voice exceeding sweet,
Answered, "We will not rivals be;
Take thou the gold, leave love to
me;
Mine be the cottage small,
And thine the rich man's hall.
"I know, indeed, that wealth is good;
But lowly roof and simple food,

With love that hath no doubt,
Are more than gold without."
Hard by a farmer hale and young
His cradle in the rye-field swung,

Tracking the yellow plain
With windrows of ripe grain.
And still, whene'er he paused to whet
His scythe, the sidelong glance
he met
Of large dark eyes, where strove
False pride and secret love.
Be strong, young mower of the-grain;
That love shall overmatch
disdain,
Its instincts soon or late
The heart shall vindicate.
In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod,
Half screened by leaves, a
stranger trod
The margin of the pond,
Watching the group beyond.
The supreme hours unnoted come;
Unfelt the turning tides of doom;

And so the maids laughed on,
Nor dreamed what Fate had done,--
Nor knew the step was Destiny's
That rustled in the birchen trees,

As, with their lives forecast,
Fisher and mower passed.
Erelong by lake and rivulet side
The summer roses paled and died,

And Autumn's fingers shed
The maple's leaves of red.
Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,
Alone, but for the diving
loon,
The partridge in the brake,
The black duck on the lake,
Beneath the shadow of the ash
Sat man and maid by Attitash;
And
earth and air made room
For human hearts to bloom.

Soft spread the carpets of the sod,
And scarlet-oak and golden-rod

With blushes and with smiles
Lit up the forest aisles.
The mellow light the lake aslant,
The pebbled margin's ripple-chant

Attempered and low-toned,
The tender mystery owned.
And through the dream the lovers dreamed
Sweet sounds stole in and
soft lights streamed;
The sunshine seemed to bless,
The air was a
caress.
Not she who lightly laughed is there,
With scornful toss of midnight
hair,
Her dark, disdainful eyes,
And proud lip worldly-wise.
Her haughty vow is still unsaid,
But all she dreamed and coveted

Wears, half to her surprise,
The youthful farmer's guise!
With more than all her old-time pride
She walks the rye-field at his
side,
Careless of cot or hall,
Since love transfigures all.
Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground
Of life is gained; her hands
have found
The talisman of old
That changes all to gold.
While she who could for love dispense
With all its glittering
accidents,
And trust her heart alone,
Finds love and gold her own.
What wealth can buy or art can build
Awaits her; but her cup is filled

Even now unto the brim;
Her world