Chapter 3

This ballad was written on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first settlers in the valley of the Merrimac.

THE beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows Surveyors of highway,--

When Keezar sat on the hillside Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either hand To keep his waxed-ends warm.

And there, in the golden weather, He stitched and hammered and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton Who brewed the stoutest ale, And he paid the goodwife's reckoning In the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing Who dress the hills of vine, The tales that haunt the Brocken And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray,--

Down on the sharp-horned ledges Plunging in steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, East and west and north and south; Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth;

Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers, No vintage-song he heard, And on the green no dancing feet The merry violin stirred.

"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, "When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad?"

Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And planted a state with prayers,--

Hunting of witches and warlocks, Smiting the heathen horde,-- One hand on the mason's trowel, And one on the soldier's sword.

But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song, Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong.

"T is work, work, work," he muttered,-- "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxen palms.

"Oh for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung!

"Oh for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wine For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine!"

A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. "Old, old am I," said Keezar, "And the Rhine flows far away!"

But a cunning man was the cobbler; He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming bees.

All the virtues of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingle With the marvels of the New.

Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his knee Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles Or the stone of Doctor Dee.[11]

For the mighty master Agrippa Wrought it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim.

To a cobbler Minnesinger The marvellous stone gave he,-- And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea.

He held up that mystic lapstone, He held it up like a lens, And he counted the long years coming Ey twenties and by tens.

"One hundred years," quoth Keezar, "And fifty have I told Now open the new before me, And shut me out the old!"

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone, And a marvellous picture mingled The unknown and the known.

Still ran the stream to the river, And river and ocean joined; And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, And cold north hills behind.

But--the mighty forest was broken By many a steepled town, By many a white-walled farm-house, And many a garner brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free; White sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village The flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces The light of a holiday.

Swiftly the rival ploughmen Turned the brown earth from their shares; Here were the farmer's treasures, There were the craftsman's wares.

Golden the goodwife's butter, Ruby her currant-wine; Grand were the strutting turkeys, Fat were the beeves and swine.

Yellow and red were the apples, And the ripe pears russet-brown, And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down.

And with blooms of hill and wildwood, That shame the toil of art, Mingled the gorgeous blossoms Of the garden's tropic heart.

"What is it I see?" said Keezar "Am I here, or ant I there? Is it a fete at Bingen? Do I look on Frankfort fair?

"But where are the clowns and puppets, And imps with horns and tail? And where are the Rhenish flagons? And where is the foaming ale?

"Strange things, I know, will happen,-- Strange things the Lord permits; But that droughty folk should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits.

"Here are smiling manly faces, And the maiden's step is gay; Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they.

"Here's pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse, The holiday and the bridal Of beauty and of use.

"Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, Do the cat and dog agree? Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood? Have they cut down the gallows-tree?

"Would the old folk know their children? Would they own the graceless town, With never a ranter to worry And never a witch to drown?"

Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay; Tossing his arms above him, The lapstone rolled away.

It rolled down the rugged hillside, It spun like a wheel bewitched, It plunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched.

There, in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still, Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill.

But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank, And his dreams make marvellous pictures Where the wizard's lapstone sank.

And still, in the summer twilights, When the river seems to run Out from the inner glory, Warm with the melted sun,

The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charmed stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream.

Air wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly; Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by. 1861.

AMY WENTWORTH

TO WILLIAM BRADFORD.

As they who watch by sick-beds find relief Unwittingly from the great stress of grief And anxious care, in fantasies outwrought From the hearth's embers flickering low, or caught From whispering wind, or tread of passing feet, Or vagrant memory calling up some sweet Snatch of old song or romance, whence or why They scarcely know or ask,--so, thou and I, Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong In the endurance which outwearies Wrong, With meek persistence baffling brutal force, And trusting God against the universe,-- We, doomed to watch a strife we may not share With other weapons than the patriot's prayer, Yet owning, with full hearts and moistened eyes, The awful beauty of self-sacrifice, And wrung by keenest sympathy for all Who give their loved ones for the living wall 'Twixt law and treason,--in this evil day May haply find, through automatic play Of pen and pencil, solace to our pain, And hearten others with the strength we gain. I know it has been said our times require No play of art, nor dalliance with the lyre, No weak essay with Fancy's chloroform To calm the hot, mad pulses of the storm, But the stern war-blast rather, such as sets The battle's teeth of serried bayonets, And pictures grim as Vernet's. Yet with these Some softer tints may blend, and milder keys Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us keep sweet, If so we may, our hearts, even while we eat The bitter harvest of our own device And half a century's moral cowardice. As Nurnberg sang while Wittenberg defied, And Kranach painted by his Luther's side, And through the war-march of the Puritan The silver stream of Marvell's music ran, So let the household melodies be sung, The pleasant pictures on the wall be hung-- So let us hold against the hosts of night And slavery all our vantage-ground of light. Let Treason boast its savagery, and shake From its flag-folds its symbol rattlesnake, Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in tan, And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones of man, And make the tale of Fijian banquets dull By drinking whiskey from a loyal skull,-- But let us guard, till this sad war shall cease, (God grant it soon!) the graceful arts of peace No foes are conquered who the victors teach Their vandal manners and barbaric speech.

And while, with hearts of thankfulness, we bear Of the great common burden our full share, Let none upbraid us that the waves entice Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint device, Rhythmic, and sweet, beguiles my pen away From the sharp strifes and sorrows of to-day. Thus, while the east-wind keen from Labrador Sings it the leafless elms, and from the shore Of the great sea comes the monotonous roar Of the long-breaking surf, and all the sky Is gray with cloud, home-bound and dull, I try To time a simple legend to the sounds Of winds in the woods, and waves on pebbled bounds,-- A song for oars to chime with, such as might Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at night Look from their hemlock camps, by quiet cove Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves they love. (So hast thou looked, when level sunset lay On the calm bosom of some Eastern bay, And all the spray-moist rocks and waves that rolled Up the white sand-slopes flashed with ruddy gold.) Something it has--a flavor of the sea, And the sea's freedom--which reminds of thee. Its faded picture, dimly smiling down From the blurred fresco of the ancient town, I have not touched with warmer tints in vain, If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one thought from pain.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Her fingers shame the ivory keys They dance so light along; The bloom upon her parted lips Is sweeter than the song.

O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles! Her thoughts are not of thee; She better loves the salted wind, The voices of the sea.

Her heart is like an outbound ship That at its anchor swings; The murmur of the stranded shell Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, But dreams the while of one Who watches from his sea-blown deck The icebergs in the sun.

She questions all the winds that blow, And every fog-wreath dim, And bids the sea-birds flying north Bear messages to him.

She speeds them with the thanks of men He perilled life to save, And grateful prayers like holy oil To smooth for him the wave.

Brown Viking of the fishing-smack! Fair toast of all the town!-- The skipper's jerkin ill beseems The lady's silken gown!

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear For him the blush of shame Who dares to set his manly gifts Against her ancient name.

The stream is brightest at its spring, And blood is not like wine; Nor honored less than he who heirs Is he who founds a line.

Full lightly shall the prize be won, If love be Fortune's spur; And never maiden stoops to him Who lifts himself to her.

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, With stately stairways worn By feet of old Colonial knights And ladies gentle-born.

Still green about its ample porch The English ivy twines, Trained back to show in English oak The herald's carven signs.

And on her, from the wainscot old, Ancestral faces frown,-- And this has worn the soldier's sword, And that the judge's gown.

But, strong of will and proud as they, She walks the gallery floor As if she trod her sailor's deck By stormy Labrador.

The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, And green are Elliot's bowers; Her garden is the pebbled beach, The mosses are her flowers.

She looks across the harbor-bar To see the white gulls fly; His greeting from the Northern sea Is in their clanging cry.

She hums a song, and dreams that he, As in its romance old, Shall homeward ride with silken sails And masts of beaten gold!

Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair, And high and low mate ill; But love has never known a law Beyond its own sweet will! 1862.

THE COUNTESS. TO E. W.

I inscribed this poem to Dr. Elias Weld of Haverhill, Massachusetts, to whose kindness I was much indebted in my boyhood. He was the one cultivated man in the neighborhood. His small but well-chosen library was placed at my disposal. He is the "wise old doctor" of Snow-Bound. Count Francois de Vipart with his cousin Joseph Rochemont de Poyen came to the United States in the early part of the present century. They took up their residence at Rocks Village on the Merrimac, where they both married. The wife of Count Vipart was Mary Ingalls, who as my father remembered her was a very lovely young girl. Her wedding dress, as described by a lady still living, was "pink satin with an overdress of white lace, and white satin slippers." She died in less than a year after her marriage. Her husband returned to his native country. He lies buried in the family tomb of the Viparts at Bordeaux.

I KNOW not, Time and Space so intervene, Whether, still waiting with a trust serene, Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten, Or, called at last, art now Heaven's citizen; But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee, Like an old friend, all day has been with me. The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet Keeps green the memory of his early debt. To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords, Listening with quickened heart and ear intent To each sharp clause of that stern argument, I still can hear at times a softer note Of the old pastoral music round me float, While through the hot gleam of our civil strife Looms the green mirage of a simpler life. As, at his alien post, the sentinel Drops the old bucket in the homestead well, And hears old voices in the winds that toss Above his head the live-oak's beard of moss, So, in our trial-time, and under skies Shadowed by swords like Islam's paradise, I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray To milder scenes and youth's Arcadian day; And howsoe'er the pencil dipped in dreams Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset streams, The country doctor in the foreground seems, Whose ancient sulky down the village lanes Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains. I could not paint the scenery of my song, Mindless of one who looked thereon so long; Who, night and day, on duty's lonely round, Made friends o' the woods and rocks, and knew the sound Of each small brook, and what the hillside trees Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys; Who saw so keenly and so well could paint The village-folk, with all their humors quaint, The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan. Grave and erect, with white hair backward blown; The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown; The muttering witch-wife of the gossip's tale, And the loud straggler levying his blackmail,-- Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears, All that lies buried under fifty years. To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay, And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay.

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Over the wooded northern ridge, Between its houses brown, To the dark tunnel of the bridge The street comes straggling down.

You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, Of gable, roof, and porch, The tavern with its swinging sign, The sharp horn of the church.

The river's steel-blue crescent curves To meet, in ebb and flow, The single broken wharf that serves For sloop and gundelow.

With salt sea-scents along its shores The heavy hay-boats crawl, The long antennae of their oars In lazy rise and fall.

Along the gray abutment's wall The idle shad-net dries; The toll-man in his cobbler's stall Sits smoking with closed eyes.

You hear the pier's low undertone Of waves that chafe and gnaw; You start,--a skipper's horn is blown To raise the creaking draw.

At times a blacksmith's anvil sounds With slow and sluggard beat, Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds Fakes up the staring street.

A place for idle eyes and ears, A cobwebbed nook of dreams; Left by the stream whose waves are years The stranded village seems.

And there, like other moss and rust, The native dweller clings, And keeps, in uninquiring trust, The old, dull round of things.

The fisher drops his patient lines, The farmer sows his grain, Content to hear the murmuring pines Instead of railroad-train.

Go where, along the tangled steep That slopes against the west, The hamlet's buried idlers sleep In still profounder rest.

Throw back the locust's flowery plume, The birch's pale-green scarf, And break the web of brier and bloom From name and epitaph.

A simple muster-roll of death, Of pomp and romance shorn, The dry, old names that common breath Has cheapened and outworn.

Yet pause by one low mound, and part The wild vines o'er it laced, And read the words by rustic art Upon its headstone traced.

Haply yon white-haired villager Of fourscore years can say What means the noble name of her Who sleeps with common clay.

An exile from the Gascon land Found refuge here and rest, And loved, of all the village band, Its fairest and its best.

He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, He worshipped through her eyes, And on the pride that doubts and scorns Stole in her faith's surprise.

Her simple daily life he saw By homeliest duties tried, In all things by an untaught law Of fitness justified.

For her his rank aside he laid; He took the hue and tone Of lowly life and toil, and made Her simple ways his own.

Yet still, in gay and careless ease, To harvest-field or dance He brought the gentle courtesies, The nameless grace of France.

And she who taught him love not less From him she loved in turn Caught in her sweet unconsciousness What love is quick to learn.

Each grew to each in pleased accord, Nor knew the gazing town If she looked upward to her lord Or he to her looked down.

How sweet, when summer's day was o'er, His violin's mirth and wail, The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, The river's moonlit sail!

Ah! life is brief, though love be long; The altar and the bier, The burial hymn and bridal song, Were both in one short year!

Her rest is quiet on the hill, Beneath the locust's bloom Far off her lover sleeps as still Within his scutcheoned tomb.

The Gascon lord, the village maid, In death still clasp their hands; The love that levels rank and grade Unites their severed lands.

What matter whose the hillside grave, Or whose the blazoned stone? Forever to her western wave Shall whisper blue Garonne!

O Love!--so hallowing every soil That gives thy sweet flower room, Wherever, nursed by ease or toil, The human heart takes bloom!--

Plant of lost Eden, from the sod Of sinful earth unriven, White blossom of the trees of God Dropped down to us from heaven!

This tangled waste of mound and stone Is holy for thy sale; A sweetness which is all thy own Breathes out from fern and brake.

And while ancestral pride shall twine The Gascon's tomb with flowers, Fall sweetly here, O song of mine, With summer's bloom and showers!

And let the lines that severed seem Unite again in thee, As western wave and Gallic stream Are mingled in one sea! 1863.