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May (search for this): chapter 3
tch and ward the mountains keep. Who that Titan cromlech fills? Forest-kaiser, lord oa the hills? Knight who on the birchen tree Carved his savage heraldry? Priest oa the pine-wood temples dim, Prophet, sage, or wizard grim? Rugged type of primal man, Grim utilitarian, Loving woods for hunt and prowl, Lake and hill for fish and fowl, As the brown bear blind and dull To the grand and beautiful: Not for him the lesson drawn From the mountains smit with dawn. Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, Sunset's purple bloom of day,— Took his life no hue from thence, Poor amid such affluence? Haply unto hill and tree All too near akin was he: Unto him who stands afar Nature's marvels greatest are; Who the mountain purple seeks Must not climb the higher peaks. Yet who knows in winter tramp, Or the midnight of the camp, What revealings faint and far, Stealing down from moon and star, Kindled in that human clod Thought of destiny and God? Stateliest forest patriarch, Grand in robes of skin
1680 AD (search for this): chapter 3
mpton meadows, where mowers laid Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass, ‘Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!’ A young man sighed, who saw them pass. Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, Hearing a voice in a far-off song, Watching a white hand beckoning long. ‘Fie on the witch!’ cried a merry girl, As they rounded the point where Goody Cole Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl, Goody Cole was brought before the Quarter Sessions in 1680 to answer to the charge of being a witch. The court could not find satisfactory evidence of witchcraft, but so strong was the feeling against her that Major Waldron, the presiding magistrate, ordered her to be imprisoned, with ‘a lock kept on her leg’ at the pleasure of the Court. In such judicial action one can read the fear and vindictive spirit of the community at large. A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul. ‘Oho!’ she muttered, ‘ye're brave to-day! But I hear the little wav
May 19th, 1780 AD (search for this): chapter 3
Is the good island known as Block, “ The Reader said.” For beauty and for ease I chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees! But let it pass; here is a bit Of unrhymed story, with a hint Of the old preaching mood in it, The sort of sidelong moral squint Our friend objects to, which has grown, I fear, a habit of my own. Twas written when the Asian plague drew near, And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear. “ Abraham Davenport. The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physical puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought something more than philosophical speculation into the minds of those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history. in the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent Their wisest men to make the public laws. And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, Waved over by the w<
1858 AD (search for this): chapter 3
ild terror of the sky above, Glide tamed and dumb below! Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove, Thy errands to and fro. Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord, Beneath the deep so far, The bridal robe of earth's accord, The funeral shroud of war! For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall Space mocked and time outrun; And round the world the thought of all Is as the thought of one! The poles unite, the zones agree, The tongues of striving cease; As on the Sea of Galilee The Christ is whispering, Peace! 1858. ‘Glad prophecy! to this at last,’ The Reader said, “shall all things come. Forgotten be the bugle's blast, And battle-music of the drum. A little while the world may run Its old mad way, with needle-gun And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall reign: The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain!” Shifting his scattered papers, ‘Here,’ He said, as died the faint applause, “Is something that I found last year Down on the island known as Orr's. I had it from a fair-haired gi
1864 AD (search for this): chapter 3
As the Celt said of purgatory, One might go farther and fare worse.” The Reader smiled; and once again With steadier voice took up his strain, While the fair singer from the neighboring tent Drew near, and at his side a graceful listener bent. 1864. The grave by the Lake. At the mouth of the Melvin River, which empties into Moultonboro Bay in Lake Winnipesaukee, is a great mound. The Ossipee Indians had their home in the neighborhood of the bay, which is plentifully stocked with fithat of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: “Never fear! For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above.” And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face! 1864. The Traveller broke the pause. “I've seen The Brothers down the long street steal, Black, silent, masked, the crowd between, And felt to doff my hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care.” The R
1865 AD (search for this): chapter 3
Indian's grassy tomb Swing, O flowers, your bells of bloom! Deep below, as high above, Sweeps the circle of God's love. 1865. He paused and questioned with his eye The hearers' verdict on his song. A low voice asked: Is't well to pry Into the secr heart, if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear: “I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, For all is well!” 1865. The sweet voice into silence went, A silence which was almost pain As through it rolled the long lament, The cadence of n 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 silooks the tower of Kallundborg church, Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair, Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare! 1865. ‘What,’ asked the Traveller, “would our sires, The old Norse story-tellers, say Of sun-graved pictures, ocean wires
1866 AD (search for this): chapter 3
t 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, witsunset seas Await the ghostly sign. They know not that its sails are filled By pity's tender breath, Nor see the Angel at the helm Who steers the Ship of Death! 1866. ‘Chill as a down-east breeze should be,’ The Book-man said. “A ghostly touch The legend has. I'm glad to see Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch.” “Well, here ct, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen Against the background of unnatural dark, A witness to the ages as they pass, That simple duty hath no place for fear. 1866. He ceased: just then the ocean seemed To lift a half-faced moon in sight; And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed, From crest to crest, a line of light, Su
1867 AD (search for this): chapter 3
agers from that vaster mystery Of which it is an emblem;—and the dear Memory of one who might have tuned my song To sweeter music by her delicate ear. 1st mno., 1867. when heats as of a tropic clime Burned all our inland valleys through, Three friends, the guests of summer time, Pitched their white tent where sea-winds blew. lushed from eye to beard, With nervous cough his throat he cleared, And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read: 1867. The wreck of Rivermouth. The Goody Cole who figures in this poem and The Changeling was Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a century or more was feared, perly sinking, the flames expire. And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine, Reef their sails when they see the sign Of the blazing wreck of the Palatine! 1867. ‘A fitter tale to scream than sing,’ The Book-man said. ‘Well, fancy, then,’ The Reader answered, “on the wing The sea-birds shriek it, not for men, But i
Christian Andersen (search for this): chapter 3
d 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! Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa'er din, Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares öine og hjerte at lege med!” Zealand Rhyme. “build at Kallundborg by the sea A church as stately as church may be, And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,” Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esber
Anna (search for this): chapter 3
s her child aside. “Rake out the red coals, goodman,— For there the child shall lie, Till the black witch comes to fetch her And both up chimney fly. It's never my own little daughter, It's never my own, “she said; ” The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead. Oh, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and hair of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old. I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It's not the milk from my boso in. My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone! Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own. She'll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she'll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat. “ Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head: “Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee,” he said. “The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the li
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