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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
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
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
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<
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
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
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