[402]
A Legend of the Lake.
[This poem, originally printed in the Atlantic Monthly was withheld from publication in his volumes by Mr. Whittier, in deference to living relatives of the hero of the poem. Death finally removed the restriction.] Should you go to Centre Harbor,As haply you sometime may,
Sailing up the Winnepesaukee
From the hills of Alton Bay,—
Into the heart of the highlands,
Into the north wind free,
Through the rising and vanishing islands,
Over the mountain sea,—
To the little hamlet lying
White in its mountain fold,
Asleep by the lake and dreaming
A dream that is never told,—
And in the Red Hill's shadow
Your pilgrim home you make,
Where the chambers open to sunrise,
The mountains, and the lake,—
If the pleasant picture wearies,
As the fairest sometimes will,
And the weight of the hills lies on you
And the water is all too still,—
If in vain the peaks of Gunstock
Redden with sunrise fire,
And the sky and the purple mountains
And the sunset islands tire,—
If you turn from in-door thrumming
And the clatter of bowls without,
And the folly that goes on its travels
Bearing the city about,—
And the cares you left behind you
Come hunting along your track,