The Tent on the Beach | Page 8

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 is love and him!?1866.
. . . . .
The while he heard, the Book-man drew?A length of make-believing face,?With smothered mischief laughing through?"Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,?And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep?On Yankee hills immortal sheep,?While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond?Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."
The Traveller laughed: "Sir Galahad?Singing of love the Trouvere's lay!?How should he know the blindfold lad?From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"--"Nay,?He better sees who stands outside?Than they who in procession ride,"?The Reader answered: "selectmen and squire?Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.
"Here is a wild tale of the North,?Our travelled friend will own as one?Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth?And lips of Christian Andersen.?They tell it in the valleys green?Of the fair island he has seen,?Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,?Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."
KALLUNDBORG CHURCH
"Tie stille, barn min
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