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 good-wife'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 wild-wood, 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 am I there?
Is it a fête 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 the dog agree
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? 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 hill-side, 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 charmèd stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream.
Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by!
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 Nürnberg 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 in 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.
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