Textarchiv - Thomas Buchanan Read

Book Fourth

mrbot — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 21:10:02 +0000

The storm is past; but still the torrent roars,
Louder and louder, with incessant swell.
The brook, near by, hath overswept its bounds,
Drowning its tallest rushes; and the board
Which made the path continuous to the school —
And where the children loitered to behold
The minnows playing — now is borne afar,
Sweeping above the bowing hazel tops.
Within the opening west, the careful sun —
Like one who throws his mansion doors apart,
And looks abroad, to scan his wide estate —
Is forth to note the progress of the storm,
And what its rage hath wrought. Afar and near,
The clouds are all ablaze with amber light;
The earth receives it, and the fields look glad;
And still the rainbow, brightening as it grows,
Rises and bends, and makes the perfect arch.
All crowd the porch, and wonder at the flood,
With various surmises and alarms;
And Master Ethan takes his hat and cane,
("Pilgrim," he calls the cane for it hath been;
Through many generations handed down,
Since first some long gone ancestor had found
The straight stem growing in an English grove
And gave the ivory top,) "Pilgrim" he takes,
And strides across the vale. Not winding round
By easy paths, but with a course direct
O'er fences and ploughed fields, to younger feet
Forbidding, bends his steps, and gains the mill;
And lo! the sad fulfilment of his fears!
The dam has burst! and, with a roar of triumph,
The freshet mocks the miller as it flies.
There stands the parson, there his good wife stands,
Surrounded by their children, and with words
Of wonder and of comfort Ethan comes.
The miller takes his sympathizing hand,
And in reply makes answer with a sigh —
"He rules the storm, the floods are in his hold,
He gives and takes, and doeth all things well!"
The sun goes down; the day departs in peace;
And through the vale the starry tapers gleam,
Signals of household calm, from cottage homes;
And here and there, perchance, the slender ray
Conducts the venturous feet of rustic swain,
Who seeks the fireside where the maiden sits
Expectant of his step and welcome knock.
Not thus Olivia waits; but even thus,
Beside the wheelwright's evening-lighted hearth,
Her gentle friend, with an uneasy breast,
Holds anxious quiet till her lover comes.
Not long she waits, but, with a fluttering heart,
Hears his approach, and welcomes him with smiles
And maiden blush discreet. The well-pleased sire
Takes, with rough grasp, the youth's smooth hand in his,
And points the place of honor by the fire.
The matron, with misgivings in her mind,
Bends the cold nod, and, bustling for a while
About her household cares, withdraws in doubt
Shaking her dubious head. Not so the squire:
Itc sits and lights his pipe, in social mood,
Which, oft as jovial converse lets go out,
As oft the glowing ember reillumes.
At last, with easy tapping at the jamb,
The ashes fall; the pipe is laid aside,
And he departs, and leaves the room to love; —
To happy whisperings, breathing words so low
That nought is heard except the cricket's song,
In chorus with the simmering of the log
And muttering flame, which hath a voice prophetic.
Oh, Muse, forbear! Although 'mid scenes like this,
Thy wont is ever to draw softly near,
And sit eavesdropping at the door of Love!
Forbear, forbear! and be no record kept,
Except within the pages of their hearts,
For Time hereafter to peruse with joy,
Or Grief to blot with tears. Or if to note
Thou needs must lend thine ear, approach, invade
The sanctuary, by intruding feet
Seldom assailed — chief bed-room of the house —
And say the tenor of the long dispute.
"He is no choice of mine," so speaks the spouse.
To which the squire demands, with testy words,
"A reason, wife, a reason? — without that
Your talk is but an idle wind, to which
My set conviction is no weathervane."
"Well, call it but a wind," the wife replies;
"But 'tis a wind which runs before the storm,
And tells which way the bitter cloud is coming.
And, as for reason, it is quite enough
My heart mislikes him, and I never found
My instincts wrong. Besides, you know the dream
I told you of." To which the husband answers,
With growing tartness, "Wind — heart — instinct — dream!
A woman's reason truly! Now hear mine:
The youth is comely, and our daughter loves him,
And, fresh returned from college, is well bred,
With so much learning that the neighbourhood
Looks on him wondering, and the loutish swains
Eye him with jealousy. Who, more than I,
Should know the advantage of a well stored mind?
Hence am I magistrate; and he may be,
As he is like to be, the people's choice,
And take his seat in Congress. Then remark
What honour follows, which must e'en reach us."
To which the wife — "Were he the Governor,
I would not bate a jot what I have said.
Where goes my liking not, I ask no honour.
He is no choice of mine. You may despise
The dream I told you; but I say his eye
Is just the eye that glittered in the snake;
So like that, when he looks at me, I shudder,
And chiefly when he smiles. And he wears rings —
I like not that — the snake was also ringed."
"Tush, woman!" cries the squire, interrupting;
"Look Reason in the face, and put to blush
Your childish superstition! Answer this:
Who hath the largest farm in all the State?
Who the best cattle? Who the fullest purse?
And is not this his heir?" The spouse replies,
With bitterness which gives each sentence strength:
"How was the farm procured? Bit after bit,
By cunning tricks of law. If each had theirs —
The poor man, and the widow, and the orphan —
Those cattle would go home to different stalls.
Case after case hath come to you for trial;
And you should know — for it hath oft been said,
Oft been a taunt our children heard at school —
That you gave favour 'gainst the poor man's cause.
Oh, Walters, many a time as I have heard
Some neighbour here recount to you his wrongs,
My heart has ached, and indignation flamed,
Until I wished that, in your icy stead,
I might sit there and hold the whip of Justice!
He, too, is maker of that poison drug
Which blights the land with poverty and woe.
His still-house knows no rest, by day or night,
Until one needs must think a demon tends it.
Oh, he hath much to answer for, and grows
More fat in sin than body! E'en the swine
He yearly bloats for slaughter at his troughs,
Roll in less ugliness than he to me."
The husband, angered, scarce can find reply;
He feels the truth, but will not leave his point;
His judgment, like a wayward child rebuked,
Grows sullen and determined in the wrong,
But presently responds: — "Well, say no more;
When weds the maid, the maid shall have her choice,
And if it be this youth — so let it be."
To which the wife makes answer with resolve: —
"I shall forbid, and if against my voice,
Encouraged on by you, the girl shall go,
Then be what mischief follows at your door —
I'll none of it." The voices cease; and now
The stars of midnight glimmer o'er the vale;
The wheelwright's gate swings o'er the silent dark,
And one lone rider occupies the road.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Seventh

mrbot — Fri, 30 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

May has come in — young May, the beautiful —
Wearing the sweetest chaplet of the year.
Along the eastern corridors she walks,
What time the clover rocks the earliest bee,
Her feet a-flush with sunrise, and her veil
Floating in breezy odours o'er her hair;
And ample garments, fluttering at the hem,
With pleasing rustle round her sandal shoon.
What happy voices wake the rural airs,
From hillside homes and valley cottages,
And every village is alive at dawn!
Long ere the dews have winged themselves to heaven,
In vernal paths the little bands are out,
Winning their course, with joyous steps and song,
Until the Oaklands take them to their arms,
And grove to grove, with loving voice, proclaims
The gladness which it feels. Before the sun
Hath burnt the western shadows from his dial,
Olivia and Amy through the shade
Walk in their snowy garments of the time,
O'er which the flickering sunshine, through the boughs,
Dances amid innumerous phantom leaves,
Chasing those lovely forms where'er they go,
And starring them with brightness. Arm in arm,
They print the tender mosses, and disturb
The broad-leafed mandrake, bending here and there
To pluck the violets peering through the leaves;
Or those small woodland flowers, so delicate
That fancy deems them the exotic blooms
Of fairy gardens, planted in the night,
And nurtured by the moon. With converse sweet,
And confidence which young hearts only know —
So pure themselves, they have not guessed how deep
The world is lored in treachery — they each
To each repeat the secrets of their loves.

Beneath yon whispering maple in the lawn —
A dainty lawn in middle of the woods —
The Mayday groups are gathered, and from there
The air comes laden with the breath of mirth;
And Amy and Olivia, in delight,
Withhold their steps, and gaze between the trees —
'Twixt shadowy vistas of huge mossy trunks
And drooping vines — and watch the floating forms,
Now seen, now hid, like stars 'mid broken clouds,
All wildly dancing 'neath their scented wreaths,
As they the embodied spirits were of flowers.
And presently, ascending to her throne,
One lovely maid for coronation mounts.
And thus, along the gladdened air, is borne
The song which greets her and proclaims her queen.

We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses,
Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn;
Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes,
Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon.
Roses, fresh roses from the young Spring borrowed,
To bind round your tresses where the zephyr loves to play.
Smile, gentle princess, while your snowy forehead
Takes the sweet coronal which crowns you queen of May!
Roses, fresh roses,
Which crown you queen of May!

We bring violets, the purple and the azure,
Which bloomed at the coming of the blue bird's wizard wing,
To greet your dear presence they oped their eyes of pleasure,
Then bowed, and they wept that you came not first of spring.
Violets, sweet violets, we plucked from April's bosom,
The last which he smiled upon before he passed away;
And thus round your forehead shall fairy bud and blossom
Shine in the coronal which crowns you queen of May!
Violets, sweet violets,
Which crown you queen of May!

We bring daisies, little starry daisies,
The angels have planted to remind us of the sky.
When the stars have vanished they twinkle their mute praises,
Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high.
Daisies, bright daisies, to gleam around your tresses,
Until your brow shall shine like the dawning of the day;
And thus, as the coronal your lovely forehead presses,
We bow to your sceptre, and we hail you queen of May!
Daisies, bright daisies,
Which crown you queen of May!

Thus fly the hours to youthful fancy dear.
Now, midway in the afternoon, the sun
Descends upon his poised and flaming wing,
Looking aslant the earth; and still
The voice of joy, with simple music joined,
Thrills through the grove, which not to childhood only
Yields up its vernal spaces, but to youths
And maidens, who come gaily flocking in,
And round the rustic viol reel the dance.
There trusting Amy greets a welcome hand,
And, hearkening to the voice she loves, floats down
From sun to shadow in bewildering maze.
The woods swim round, the trees with linked hands
Whirl through the music and the misty light,
With giant gesture and half human smile,
Swaying as to a wind. And thus the maid,
Clasped by the arm of love, forgets the world.
Alone Olivia strolls beyond the place,
Seeking in unfrequented paths the quiet
Her soul desires — communion with itself;
And following her heart, which fondly leads,
She finds the sacred places where, in days
Long gone, she walked with Arthur at her side.
Here was the spot where from the summer school,
When childish liking heralded their love,
They wandered, and from honeysuckle boughs
Gathered nectarean fruit. Here was the place
They walked beside the brook, and gaily plucked
The spiry rushes which, with rustic art,
They wove in little baskets; such as held
The handful of wild berries, after gleaned,
From vines which stole beneath the meadow grass,
Or at the briery fence-side grew. Here was the scene —
Dear heart be calm! — where 'neath these sheltering limbs,
When the broad poplar filled his cups of gold —
Where every wandering wind and pilgrim bee
Drank, and, departing, boasted of the draught —
Her ear had caught the low first words of love,
Her hand had felt the first declaring pressure;
And now, as then, she leans against the tree.
Her hair escaping glides unto her shoulder;
From out its folds the wild flowers, like her tears,
Drip noiseless and unnoted to the ground.
The sun descends; the long and level ray
Kisses the maiden's shoulder, and glides up,
Flaming a little in the poplar's top;
Then, lighting on a fleecy cloud o'erhead,
Burns, fades and dies as embers in the ashes.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Sixth

mrbot — Sat, 24 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

Along the roads, with busy pick and spade,
The neighbours gather, and, in cheerful groups,
Repair the way. Some hold the heavy plough,
Which grates and scours along the sandy side,
Or from the rock rebounds, with sudden jerk,
Or caught beneath the deep-laid elm-root, stalls.
Some fill the gullies which the winter made,
And with broad shovels smooth the gravelly ground.
And all, with frequent jest and laugh, pursue
Their labour, making holiday of toil;
And, when the work is done, turn cheerly home,
Well pleased to know the yearly tax is paid.
Now comes the mid-week; and, from various roads,
Behold the frequent chaise, with easy jog,
Taking its tranquil way to yonder grove —
A grove of Lombard poplars, tall and saint-like —
And under which the long, low building stands,
Gray with the touches of a century, —
A house of meditation and of prayer,
The favourite temple of meek-handed Peace.
There meets the calm community of "Friends,"
The old and young, in rigid garb arrayed;
The same their grandsires wore, and, in their hope,
The same their far descendants shall put on,
Remembering their fathers, and their faith,
And simple piety. The ample brim
Shades the white patriarchal hair of age,
And the brown locks of youth. There maidenhood,
Its gay soul glancing from meek bending eyes,
Walks, like the matron, in staid habit dressed.
How beautiful, in those straight hoods of silk,
And scrupulous lawns, which shield their tender necks,
The gentle Rachels, Ruths and Deborahs pass!
There oft the Christian virtues come in name,
And oft in spirit, walking hand in hand —
Hope cheering Faith, with Charity between.
But this, alas! is fading year by year;
From out the Quaker chrysalis are born
The wings which wear the changing hues of fashiou;
And feet, released, forget their ancient thrall,
And for the late constraint, with lighter tread,
Lead through the mazes of the intricate dance,
Imported fresh from foreign capitols.
Their mission is accomplished; and the march
Of this calm band, which, in the van of Peace,
Walked, conquering with forbearance, 'mid reproach,
And jeers of ridicule, is o'er; and now
The few who still surround the saintly tent,
And prop it 'mid the advancements of the time,
May rest upon the memory of the past,
Content with its results. The future comes,
And things, which have been useful in their day,
Are driven into the bygone realms of old,
And leave no vestige of their powerful camps.
The good, which they have wrought, alone survives —
The form in which it came, departs, and this
Is undistinguishably merged at last,
And in the general stream of progress lost.
New orders come, as old ones take their leave;
And "welcome" sounds not oftener than "adieu."

The streams, which late the storm had overcharged,
Have fallen, and left the record of their height
Marked on the woodland trunks; while here and there,
Where obstacles opposed, the muddy drift
Is lodged to dry, and in the summer sun
Become the rest of reptiles, and what else
In such vicinities consort. When comes
The mantled winter, this may be the haunt
Of timid rabbits, and the flocking quail;
Where oft the hunter, with his dog, shall steal
Tracking the knee-deep snow; and shivering here,
The children of the poor shall frequent come,
And tear the tangled drift apart, and bear
The frozen branch to light their dreary hearth.
The stream has fallen; and at the miller's dam,
The neighbours, by good master Ethan called,
Collecting come with crowbar, pick and spade,
And in the breach begin the swift repair.
How like a miracle the progress is
Of cheerful labour, wrought by numerous hands
Working in concert, where the heart and hand
Conspire, well pleased, to do a generous act!
No hope of recompense, which wealth can give,
Sends such alacrity to hands humane,
As doth the sense of doing noble duty.
The day which sees a liberal deed complete,
A fellow creature in misfortune helped,
Falls round the doer, at its evening close,
With gentle airs and loving dews of peace;
Sleep, like an angel, at his pillow sits,
And charms his lids 'gainst ill-intruding dreams.

The week draws near its close, and now the school
Takes wonted holiday. It is a time
The older children are required at home.
The wide-mouthed oven must be set a-roar,
Fired by such light brush and broken rails
As fence and woodland yield. These bring the boys,
Dragging the crackly loads with shouts of glee.
At home the girls, delighted, tend the babe,
And teach it by the sliding chair to walk —
How beautiful to watch their loving care,
The future mother swelling in their breasts!
While those, which date nor yet so young nor old,
Beneath the orchard crowd the little swing,
Or in the barn disturb the secret nest.
Some by the roadside build the mimic house,
With moss and broken ware set out. Meanwhile
The busy matron, o'er the floury tray,
Kneads the huge loaf; or on the snowy board
Rolls the thin crust, and crimps the juicy pie.
Then, from the paddle broad, the pan and dish
Glide grating to the heated cave to bake.
By noon, the ample tables and the shelves
Groan with the weight of swollen loaves, embrowned,
And pies arranged to cool; and all the air
Is redolent with the delicious scent
Which makes the appetite by expectation,
And whets the watery tooth!

From the warm south
The whispering breezes flow; and the calm sky
Is flecked with shadowy vapours, scarcely clouds,
Through which the sun rolls lazily and red.
This master Ethan notes, and takes his rod —
For he has heard, for weeks, the whistling swamps
A welcome signal to the fisher's ear —
And, with the feeling fresh as when a youth,
Makes through the meadow, where the stream invites,
And to the surface gives the tempting bait.
And there the well-pleased grandchild bears the string—
No love of gentle Walton charms his brain;
His art is such as anglers only know
Who from experience learn to trim the hook,
And swing the whip-like line. The bait is rude;
No artificial fly, with golden wing,
Flits o'er the ripple; yet, as oft he throws,
The round chub, whirling on its watery wing,
Darts through the wave, then flutters on the land.
Above, below — they will not mar his sport —
The ploughmen, boisterous from their finished fields
With nets relentless scoop the deepest pools,
And throw the heterogeneous tribes ashore.
Some whose long task detains them through the day,
Treading the furrows, when that eve sets in,
Will come with torch and spear, and wade the stream;
Or at the rude boat's prow, beneath the blaze
Dripping with flaming pitch, with watchful eye
And steady hand direct the sure harpoon.

Another week comes in. The Sabbath past,
The old and young are gathered to the fields.
Some walk the furrow, and let drop the maize,
With measured space between; while some, behind,
With hoe industrious conceal the grain,
And form the little mounds, erelong to sprout
And wave their rustling plumes. This done, behold,
The hideous shape is throned upon the field!
A figure built awry, with outstretched arms,
And, like a drunkard maudlin, in the wind
Flutters its rags, and frights the pilfering crow.

Now blooms the lilac, sweetening all the air;
And by the brook the alder, and the rose,
Propt at the cottage door with careful hands,
Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May.
To-morrow, and the smiling month shall come.
To-morrow! what delight is in to-morrow!
What laughter and what music, breathing joy,
Float from the woods and pastures, wavering down
Dropping like echoes through the long to-day,
Where childhood waits with weary expectation!

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Fifth

mrbot — Fri, 23 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

The lamp, renewed, still sheds a cheerful light,
Hope lends a halo to its steady blaze;
And through the casement beam the westward stars,
Taking their noiseless way, and shining still,
Though sleeps the world and there are few to note.
And thus, encouraged by example high,
The Muse awakes her simple theme and sings,
And breathes, in the attentive air of night,
The song to-morrow may refuse to hear.
When comes the tumult of the noisy day,
And the great city, like a cataract, swells,
Pouring its drowning tide of toil and trade,
Not Pan's own pipe might bid it turn and hark,
And, hearkening, be refreshed, — much less the tune
Floating unskilful from these rustic stops.
Oh, thou to-morrow! wherefore wilt thou rise,
And shake the quiet from thy garment's fold,
E'en as a lion shakes the dream of peace
From out his mane, and springs upon his prey?
As on the Sabbath, birds and brooks will sing,
The flowers come forth and gentle airs shall breathe,
Laden with perfume; yet wilt thou go forth,
Girded with love of transient gain and power,
As if the world of beauty and of song
Behind the gates of yesterday lay closed!
Oh, rapid age, whence tends thy noisy course?
Thy roaring wheels affright me, and I shrink —
Shrink to the wayside hedge, and stand appalled;
And, 'mid the smoke and discord, blindly ask
The question none will spare the time to answer!
Whence tends thy course? To that white mart of Peace
Where Wisdom, on the perfect throne of Knowledge,
Reigns absolute, and Justice, loving all,
And by all loved, hath dropped her useless scales?
Or to the realm of Discord, where the walls,
For their stupendous height, shall one day fall,
With louder ruin, round the homes of men;
And this huge tower aspiring to the heavens,
Which Science daily rears, be stayed at last
With multitudinous jargon of wild tongues?
Vain question, where no voice will make reply.
Time only answers in the distant future,
So far his words faint in the midway air,
Or come in broken murmurs, like the sea's,
Dying uncomprehended. Still my soul
Holds faith in man and in his progress forth;
Since not alone 'tis his, but God's.

Day dawns,
And with it swell the sounds, afar and near,
Of lowing cattle and the crowing cocks.
From farm to farm the wakening signals run,
And the blue smoke ascends. The sheep, released,
Leap the low bars and, following their bell,
Go bleating to the pasture. And, anon,
The ploughman drives his team into the field,
And treads the furrow till the horn recalls.
Meanwhile the kine their generous udders yield,
And fill the sounding pail, till it o'erruns,
And drips the path with foam. Then, at the spring,
The snowy liquid poured in careful rows,
And on the watery slabs arranged to cool,
Gleams like a series of full moons. Afar
The giant forge, at labour 'mid the hills,
Throbs sullen thunder from its iron heart,
And 'neath yon poplar, bursting into bloom,
The lesser anvil rings. While from the cot
Which on the breezy upland greets the east,
The windows blazing with the morning red,
The loom makes answer with its busy beat.

Look in to-day upon the murmuring school.
There sits the old man at his wonted desk,
Round which the scholars stand in crescent rows,
Class after class, the oldest coming first;
Then, gradually descending, till the child
In russet slip comes tottering to his feet,
And finds a place upon the knee of age,
Where dimpled fingers point the letters wrong,
Or stray unchided to the master's watch-seals.
How like a hive, the busy school house hums!
Till comes the hour of recess, when in streams,
With laughter loud, they pour into the air,
And join in various games. Two desks there are,
Which hold for all especial charms; and oft
The smiling children mark them out, and point
On one the deep carved "O." Six times the Spring
Hath breathed its odours round the sacred place,
Since here the boy engraved the charmed cypher;
And yearly the tradition is passed down,
"There sat Olivia, and here Arthur sat."
Now bloom the orchards, and the noisy bees
Sing like a wind among the snowy limbs.
The occupants of neighbouring garden hives
Are there, in full communities, to mine
The odorous Eldorado; and the wasp
Dropping his long legs, like a flying crane,
Lights on the flower, and, with his ready sting,
Threats the intruder. There the humble-bee
Comes booming, and departs with laden thighs.
The yellow-jacket, small and full of spite,
Bedecked in livery of golden lace,
Comes with the fretful arrogance of one
Who plays the master, though himself a slave;
And over all, the tyrant of the hour,
The kingbird, hovers, darting on his prey;
And takes the ventured argosy of sweets,Since this passage was written, the supposed fact has become a disputed question. I shall be glad to find that I have done this little marauder injustice.
Then boasts his conquest on the adjacent branch,
Where, like a pirate hauled against the wind,
He waits another sail. From limb to limb,
The birds which here delight to build their nests —
The blue-bird, and the robin, and the small
Gray wood-pecker — now flit among the flowers,
Until the air is full of life and song,
As it is full of perfume. Now begins
The housewife's happiest season of the year.
The ground, already broken by the spade —
The beds, made level by the passing rake —
The almanac consulted, and the signs
Conspiring favour — forth with apron full
Of choicest seeds, the best which last year gave,
She sallies to the garden where, all day,
Breathing the pleasant odour of the mould,
She bends and plants, while, to her eye of hope,
Here springs the early pea, and there the bean,
The lettuce and the radish, and what else
Her culinary providence requires.
But chief of all, with careful hands, she sets
The slips, and bulbs, and seeds which, round each bed,
Shall make a bright embroidery of flowers.
Thus the dame Baldwin in her garden bends.
Meanwhile, Olivia by the mellow air,
Her winter task of flax not wholly spun,
Is woo'd unto the porch, where at her wheel,
Where sat her grandma generations since,
She sits and sings, not loud but low.
The little wren to listen stops his song,
And wonders on the woodbine. Thus she sings: —

"A damsel dwelt in a mansion old,
Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde;
The hills were bright, the sky was gold,
Where rose the flaming sun beyond.

The red stream of the rising day
Set all her windows east a-glow,
And on her face the morning ray
Still stole, as it were loth to go.

And there she spun the silver flax,
But guessed not what the woof would be,
While, through her hands of snowy wax,
The white thread ran incessantly.

As fair as any queen, in sooth,
She toiled and held a noble trust;
Her heart had whispered this one truth —
What work would brighten, sloth would rust.

'There is a loom,' she said, 'receives
Whatever skeins my reel shall bear;
There is a weaver, daily weaves
The woof which I, perforce, must wear.

And be the thread or coarse or fine,
The loom is still the sure receiver;
Whate'er I spin, the same is mine,
Returned in full from Time the weaver!'"

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Twentieth

mrbot — Thu, 22 Mar 2018 21:10:05 +0000

Approaches now the time to Christians dear,
Hallowed with grateful memories; the hour
Which startled Herod on his throne, and drew
The star-led Magi through the manger door,
Where lay the infant Saviour of a world,
More terrible to Eden's serpent vile —
Which now, affrighted, backward shrunk, chagrined,
Coiling upon himself — than was the boy,
The cradled Hercules, unto the snake
He strangled in his grasp. This is the eve,
Welcome to all, by childhood chiefly hailed,
Bringing that day the angels ushered in
O'er favoured Bethlehem; and every house
Is waked with joy, no pagan palace knew.
Now to the hearth the Christmas-log is rolled,
Huge, unassailed by severing wedge and maul:
Not the light pine, consuming in a day,
Or loud explosive chestnut whose report
Oft calls the housewife with her hurried broom;
But hickory, solid, or, more common, oak,
Whose knotted grain defies the splitting axe;
Which, once arranged, behind the andirons glows,
Devouring many a forelog, daily brought,
Till New Year rolls another in its place.

Behold where through the starry twilight air,
Across the field, with crispy footfalls, walk
Olivia and Amy, bearing each,
From Baldwin's pantry, something for the dame
Who in the lonely Oakland shadow dwells;
While Master Ethan, in his ancient coat,
Whose long skirts sweep the snow, strides on before
Bearing the fowl — no plumper crowds the roost —
To cheer the morrow's feast. Beside her door,
Already, the rough wain has tracked the snow,
And shed the winter cord; and on the sill
The miller's frequent sack, to-day, was left.
Oh, ye, who sit in warm, penurious ease,
Did ye but know the recompense which flows,
Richer than gold, unto the heart that gives,
Your very selfishness would master self,
Till, on the coldest night of all the year,
There should not be a hearth-stone unablaze;
Or in a pantry want of wherewithal
To bless the humble board, however poor!

The door approached, the comfortable flame
Gleams through unlisted crannies and the small
Four panes which make a window; while above
The cheerful smoke, shot through with frequent sparks,
Mounts on the still cold air. A hasty glance
They cast, and set their burthens down, and turn
To leave; when at the door, with startling voice,
The dame arrests them, crying, "Fly not so!
Stay yet awhile; for knowing who ye are,
I wot, there are some thanks for me to pay.
At least, fair damsels, let me pass my hand
A moment o'er your own; and, in the dark,
Perchance, I'll tell you something not amiss.
Oh, here is joy!" she cries — the while she draws
Her bony finger o'er Olivia's palm —
"So soon to come it needs no prophecy!"
Then, taking Amy's shrinking hand in her's,
With low, confiding voice she speaks: — " When times
Have changed, and bring to you the need of friends,
Beneath this humble roof one may you find.
Here is a shelter where the tainted breath,
The bad world loves to breathe, cannot invade:
Cold slander points not at a couch like mine.
This have the outcasts for their comfort; while
That low and horrid shed must yet be built,
Which hath not space enough for Peace to enter."
Thus having heard, they turn beyond the gate,
And leave her murmuring to herself; and soon
The farm-house takes them to its glowing arms.

How swell the young hearts round the evening board,
While spreads conjecture of the coming gifts!
And soon the stockings at the jamb
Are hung, convenient, where the promised saint,
Through sooty entrance, shall descend unseen.
Oh, thou brave, generous spirit, whose sure round
Comes yearly, like the snow — Saint Nicholas,
Or Santa Claus — or, in these sylvan vales,
"Kriss Kringle" called — of all the blessed saints
Which, as the legends say, revisit earth,
I have chief faith in thee! For thou dost come,
Noiseless and unobtrusive, to thy shrines,
The Christmas hearths; and to thy votaries givest,
And takest naught, save, at the early morn,
The countless thanks, from youthful hearts of joy,
Given in shouts profuse. In what strange form
Thou comest is not known; but fancy deems
Thy breast is swept with patriarchal beard,
Thy silver locks encased in downy cap,
Thy ample mantle of the softest furs,
Native to arctic climes; thy starry car —
Laden at Nuremberg's toy-crowded gables —
A sleigh, with silver runners, which through
Clouds of snow, unfallen on the frosty dark,
Flies drawn by spirits of a Lapland team,
With shadowy antlers broad, whose many bells
Are only heard in slumber's dreamy air.
Thus wilt thou come to-night; and, with the dawn,
Whether thou stayest to hear, or fliest afar,
To shade thy head a twelvemonth in thy realm —
Withdrawn, unknown — the happiest laughing voice
Sincerest of the year, shall swell with praise
And gratitude to thy mysterious name.
Along the valleys winds the coachman's horn,
Announcing his approach; and while his steeds
Are led to stable, steaming as they go,
And fresher are brought out, one traveller
Alights; and, straightway, favoured by the moon,
Takes the near path across, through field and grove,
And on the hill, which gives the vale to sight,
Stands for a moment, breathless with his joy.
His shadow, like his fancy, streaming far
And swiftly in advance, along the snow,
Full twice his wonted height the figure seems
Above his shade; while all his stately frame
Is glowing, throbbing with a new delight.
The landscape swims, confused, in manly tears;
The cottage lights, like wisps, unsteady shine,
Wavering, uncertain, as his steps renew.
Swiftly he glides, recalling every spot
Which sideway meets his eye; but still his gaze
Upon one lighted window firmly holds.
Now hath he neared the gate; and, trembling now,
Steals slowly to the door, while sounds within
The boisterous laugh of children. When this fades,
His heart so loudly thunders in his brain,
He cannot catch the voice he most would hear.
His hand is at the latch; but, ere it lifts,
The door, as by a spirit oped, swings wide,
And all the brightness of the light within
Falls on his noble form; and, like a ghost,
Breathless, Olivia before him stands.
The taper drops from out her loosened grasp;
She calls his name, and swoons into his arms;
And all the household echoes, "Arthur! Arthur!"

How speed the hours between those happy hearts!
What welcomes sweet! what fluent interchange
Of all which filled their separated past!
Ne'er were two dwellings waked with deeper joy,
Than are to-night the homes of the betrothed;
So deep that sleep, admiring, stands withdrawn,
Listening unseen beneath the midnight arch.
The morrow comes, and every neighbouring house
Is filled with gladness at the welcome news —
So much is Arthur held in their esteem.
And invitations, set for different nights,
Soon fill the coming week; when the full board
Is spread, with honour to the housewife's skill,
And choicest cider-casks are bid to flow,
While fruits and nuts go round. There, every eve,
The favoured lovers lead the country reel,
Where Envy, pale, abashed at her own voice,
Shrinks from the door to more ambitious halls.
And there, the frequent centre of a group,
The happy traveller, glowing with his theme,
Repeats the wonders of the sea or land,
Spreading, to the undoubting, marvelling eye,
The pictures which his rapid language paints,
Till many a listener takes his pack and staff,
Sailing imaginary seas, to climb
The visionary Alp, or stride the plain
Where history's various-coloured tents are pitched.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Tenth

mrbot — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 21:10:01 +0000

What sounds are these which thrill the morning star,
Hailing the advancing banner of the sun,
While now the herald dawn, with backward hair,
Inflates his winding horn, and wakes the day,
Speeding across the hill-tops? Hark, the roll
Of distant cannon rumbling through the sky,
As if a huge triumphal car, in haste,
Were rolling and resounding through the streets
Of some glad city welcoming its return;
While lesser sounds of bells and rattling guns
Swell the rejoicing hour! It is the day
When Independence celebrates her birth —
The Jubilee of Freedom yearly kept!
A nation rising from its rest secure;
A nation which hath never worn a crown;
A land which hath not held a throne, or felt
The foot of king, or seen his purple robe,
Sends up its voice, with one loud shout of joy,
Which starts the eagle of the Nor'most lake,
And wakes the Mexic gulf — while on his shore
The Atlantic hears, and his eternal head
Lifts, and prolongs the sound — till in the West,
On stretching sands, in many an unknown bay,
Mid shadowy slumber the Pacific smiles,
Catching the cadence as it dies, and dreams
Of Freedom's cities rising on his coast,
And navies showing Liberty her flag!
It is a sound to flush the patriot's breast,
And drive the colour from the tyrant's cheek;
Where on his olden and decaying throne,
He stands a-gaze, and, staring o'er the sea,
Wonders; and, with a nervous hand of haste,
Presses the weighty crown upon his brow,
And grasps the sceptre his amaze hath loosed,
Assuring him a king! Long be the day
Remembered, and awaked with shouts, as now!

From every home the gladsome people pour;
O'er woods and fields resound the drum and fife;
And presently the flaming banners, rich
With golden mottoes and with silver stars,
Along the highway set a-blaze the air:
As in the hour when wildly on the sky,
They wrote in words of fire the despot's fall,
Dazzling his dull uncomprehending eye
With "weighed and wanting!" till the interpreter,
The father of a grateful country, came
And read the "Upharsin" to his startled ear!

With one accord, the various cottage-homes
Pour down the paths and highways to the town —
The village on the white and dusty road —
Their several habitants. The young and old,
Each bent on pleasing and on being pleased,
Are ranged into procession, two by two,
While many a jest and laugh run down the line.
Across the pasture, winding to the grove,
All follow, to the measure of that tune
Which first had birth upon Derision's lips,
Till Victory heard, and with exulting tongue,
Echoed the notes, that, hallowed by her voice,
Henceforth became an anthem for a nation!

Already the rude table's giant length
Stretches beneath the embowering limbs, and scents
The fragrant air with pine. Adjacent, see
The speaker's rostrum — rough, as suits the time,
And strong — where, caught aloft in smooth festoons,
Two silken banners of the stripes and stars,
With friendly points of glittering spear-heads crossed,
Delight the enthusiast's eye. Anon,
Mid shouts, the leaders take the stand; and now
The parson pours the solemn thankful prayer,
The gratitude which every freeman feels.
Then rises Master Ethan, tall and frail,
And clearly, with well modulated voice,
Reads the great "Declaration" to the end.
Whereat a long huzza, from every heart,
Shakes the deep welkin, while the limbs between
Murmur afar, and each astonished bird
Drops in the trees and listens. Then arises
The song which every tongue delights to swell.
This past, the fiery speech inflames the hour,
Oft interrupted by the loud applause;
And with a loving ardour lingers long
O'er scenes our grandsires, in the years agone —
What time they held us charmed upon their knees —
Pictured unto our childish eyes, until
The little soul, to patriot's teaching true,
Rose up in arms and waved the mimic sword.
Then comes the plenteous feast, with stated toasts,
And music and gay song between. And now,
In brimming cups the amber cider flows,
Sparkling and sweet, smelling of autumn brown;
Three years a-past from out the creaking press
It streamed, and now full ripe and rich, it glows
In cooling pitchers, starred and striped with dew;
Or paler beverage, where the citron swims,
Yielding the acid from its severed sphere,
And shedding odours of the melting South,
So nectarine, the wasp attracted comes,
An armed republican, and tastes the cup
Ere the libation, at the waiting mouth,
Is pledged to Liberty.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Eighth

mrbot — Tue, 20 Mar 2018 21:10:07 +0000

The spring departs; and, in her speeding haste,
Chased by a swarm of murmuring winds and bees,
Scatters the withered lilacs as she flees.
The blue bird mourns for her; the russet wren
Leads out its young, to see her ere she leaves.
Her hands are full of garlands, some a-bloom,
Some budding and some dead. With floating hair,
Thus fled Ophelia in her frenzied hour;
And, like Ophelia, from her willow branch,
Spring, singing, falls into the lilied pool,
And in the crystal stream of summer drowns.
The heavens a little weep above her form,
What time she floats adown into the past,
Till June, full blown and blooming, like her rose,
Comes laughing in beneath the rainbow arch.

It is the season when the stormy hive
Gives forth the noisy whirlwind of its swarm,
Which swings awhile above its ancient home,
With whirrings louder than a housewife's wheel,
And warns the dame of their intended flight;
When forth she sallies, all a-glow with fear
And anxious hope, and on the sounding pan
Beats like a maniac drummer in mid battle,
Filling the air with wild, discordant noise,
Until, for thus her rustic fancy deems,
The guiding voice of the great sov'reign bee
Is drowned amid the tumult. Then, perforce,
Their further flight is stayed; and on a limb,
With layer o'er layer, they settle till the branch
Droops with the black, impending weight; and then
The ready hive receives the living mass.
Or, if too late the ringing pan assails,
Behold the swift and winding line, afar,
Flies warping on the sun-illumined air,
And mocks the disappointed eye, until
Amid the distant forest boughs it sweeps,
And, like a veil entangling, clings and lights
Too high to be regained. Then, in some tree,
Some hollow oak, or beech, or sycamore,
Driving the astonished squirrel from his home,
They fix their habitation, and at once
Fill up their waxen garners with the sweets
The woodland blossoms and the clover yield;
And little reck how, in the autumnal hour,
The assailing axe shall come, and sulphurous smoke
Besiege their woody citadel, until
Invading hands usurp their winter store.

Now have the flocks been driven unto the brook,
And bathed to snowy whiteness 'gainst their will;
And, bleating oft beneath the clipping shears,
Have yielded up the fleece. The meadow fields
Are waving in the sunshine like a sea —
A billowy deep, whose flowers are like a foam;
And all abroad, behold the busy throng
Of those who swing the clover, as a path,
From seething scythes into the sidelong swath,
And sharp their blades with many a shrill che-whet.
The air is full of perfume. Following these,
With laugh and song, gay youths, with glittering prongs,
Shake out the scented masses to the sun,
Until the noon beholds the fields half mown,
And from the hill-side calls the midday horn.
Some bands there are, in harvest plains remote,
Who hearken not the conch's announcing call;
But pass into the oak or poplar's shade,
And on the branch suspend the glittering scythes,
Which hang vibrating; then the circle draw —
The grass alike their table and their seat —
While well-stored baskets furnish forth the meal.
The spring near by its crystal tribute gives,
And deals its freshness through the rustic gourd.

When now the grass, oft turned beneath the sun,
Is dry and crisp, and rustles to the tread,
Then comes the rake, with many a long drawn sweep,
Gleaning the shaven weed, until the plain,
Rough with the sultry stacks, appears a field
Thick set with russet tents. And thus it stands
Until the wagons, drawn by horse or yoke
Of easy oxen, with slow swaying gait,
Their large eyes dreaming o'er the rolling cud,
Convey the winter store unto the barn.
Then what wild laughter fills the heated mow,
Where boyhood treads the sweltering waves of hay,
Climbing the encroaching billows as they roll,
Till like a tide it swells along the roof,
Molesting wasps and swallows! — swells and swells,
Till the marauding child, with curious eye,
Thrusts his adventurous hand into the nest —
The highest in the grooved rafters lodged —
And finds but fragments of the tender shell,
Which crumble in his fingers, while outside
The parent bird darts laughing its derision.

Behold yon shape which, down the dusty road,
Comes marvellously large! It is a form
To frighten childhood from its wayside play;
At whose approach the household mastiff barks,
And, barking, to his kennel shrinks afraid.
It is the pedler, bending 'neath his load,
Like mighty Samson with the Gaza gates,
Or Atlas with the world. His monthly round
Once more hath brought him to these quiet homes.
Once more he lets the monster pack descend,
Straightens his shoulders, and unbinds the straps,
And shows the housewife the enticing store.
Long time she looks, yet shakes the cautious head,
Swaying 'twixt prudence and desire. Meanwhile
The children crowd, with wondering eyes, to see
The motley heap, with fingers oft offending,
And often chid; while, at her apron, one
Clings timidly, and nears, by gradual steps,
As wonder gains the mastery of fear.
With artful words the petty merchant spreads
The various show; now smooths the glossy silk,
And holds it to the light aslant; or, dropped
To lengthened folds, displays the embryo skirt.
There the white lace and there the ribands gleam,
Which light the maiden's eye. The vender's art,
Catching at every favourable sign,
Still pours persuasion from his ready tongue;
And, in the face of many a stubborn "No,"
Lightens his pack and bleeds the matron's purse.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Nineteenth

mrbot — Thu, 15 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

The winter comes,
Proclaimed by winds, and charioted by snows;
And, like an arctic voyager returned,
His white furs breathing of the Nor'land frost,
Tells of the frozen fields and mounts of ice,
For ever flaming in the boreal lights,
A-flush with dawn-like hues which bring no day.
Now the bright sun above a brighter world —
A world as white as last month's perfect moon —
Looks all abroad, and on the jewelled trees,
And icicles which taper at the eaves,
Flashes his lavish splendour. Every stream
Is deeply sealed beneath a frozen bridge,
Where glides the glittering skate, with many a whirl,
Scarring the polished floor. Afar and near
The air is full of merriment aud bells;
And the swift sleigh, along the slippery road,
Flies through the powdery mist which every gust
Blows from the buried field. Here sweep some past,
Muffled in generous skins — the bison's robe
Spread largely, trailing in the sidelong drift.
There timid Amy by her lover sits,
Her soft cheek blushing at the winter's kiss.
Anon, behold the temporary sledge —
Built in the first joy of the earliest snow —
Which gives to rustic youths a thrill of pleasure
Deeper than feels the Czar, encased in furs,
Mid music swifter and more safely whirled.
Down yonder hill, mid boyhood's ringing shouts,
An avalanche of little sleds are shot,
Streaking the air with laughter as they fly.
There the tough snow-balls, hardened 'twixt the knees,
Stream through the air, with meteor-crossing lines,
Till oft the winter coat is starred with white,
The mark of skilful aim. Here one, perchance,
Starts the small round, which gathers as it rolls,
Until the giant pile half blocks the road;
Or at the wayside reared, takes human form —
A monster bulk that, when the eve sets in,
Shall fright the traveller with its ghostly shape,
And start his steed aside. In yonder shed,
Where rings the anvil with a bell-like sound,
The Smith, while oft the share is in the coals,
Leans on the polished handle of his sledge,
And sees in visions, pleasing to his eye,
The pictures which the floating rumours give
Enticing to the West. And when the iron
Flames on the stithy, like a rising sun,
Driving the shadows into cobweb corners,
The hammer takes new impulse from his arm —
Imagination so possesses him —
And falls as 'twere the echo-waking axe,
Swung by a pioneer in boundless woods.
The Wheelwright, too, wields the curved, dangerous adze,
And shapes the axle, as it were a beam
Or rafter for the cabin, in his mind.
The Mason — for the frozen mortar now
Refuses use — beside the glowing fire,
Spreads his hard hands, and, gazing in the blaze,
Startles the woodlands with his trowel's ring.
The Cooper, at his shaving-horse astride,
Draws the swift knife, and shapes the oaken stave
As 'twere a shingle for his forest home.
The Miller hears, amid the dusty meal,
The mill-dam roaring at some unknown stream,
And rears his pulpit in the distant wild.
And in the grove the Woodman, mid his cords,
Fells the primeval trunks. And e'en the Gunner —
So powerful the infectious fever grows —
Strides, heedless of the rising flocks of quail;
And, homeward turning, hangs the weapon up,
Saving his charge for more important game.
Now comes the warmer noon. The vanes swing round
Before the south wind's soft and venturous wing.
The breeze, like childhood in the shell-bark limbs,
Shakes from the trees the rattling sleet; and now
The eaves are pouring as with summer rain.
Along the slushy roads the labouring sleigh,
Returning, cuts into the softened earth,
Grating discordant to the bells; the driver's face,
Each melting moment falling with the thaw,
Gives the long gauge of disappointed mirth.
Then follows eve. The slanting sun descends —
The snow grows crisp — the roofs withhold their rain —
And, like a proud man's mind, the icicle,
Which had been spendthrift once, gives less and less,
Until the last slow drop is held congealed,
And the cold, miser point forbids approach.

When o'er the western threshold goes the sun,
Spreading his great hand through the crimson clouds,
Shedding his benediction ere he leaves,
Then dawns the eve around the social fire;
From six to ten the nightly quiet glows,
Soothing the household. Oh, how blest are they
Who feel the calm that gilds the sacred hearth!
To them, nor spring, nor summer's voiceful time,
Hold music sweeter than is chaunted there.
From out the steaming logs the woodland sprites
Sing, as they fly, a grateful song of peace;
And crickets, full of harvest memories,
In nook and crevice warm, rehearse their lays,
Until the charmed and dreamy sense beholds
The scented hay-fields, and the nodding sheaves;
While Winter, like an uninvited guest,
Stands at the hearth forgot. What though the morn,
Through darkened chambers, pours her phantom snow,
While all the stars, which ice the arch of heaven,
Pierce the deep stillness with their splintered light; —
Or though the clouds their fleecy fulness shed,
Till farm with farm become one fenceless field,
And fill the road, and roof the running brook,
To oft mislead the wagoner and his team; —
Though 'gainst the cottage piles the shifting snow,
While at the sill the searching powder sifts; —
Far from the blaze the deepening cold withdraws,
And all grow tranquil as the tempest swells.

Thus flames the hearth where Master Ethan sits,
In dreamy trance, who, gazing at the blaze,
Beholds Elijah's mounting wheels of fire;
While, at his feet, the glowing grandchild, rapt,
Pours o'er some magic page; or, eager lists,
With largening eyes, the reverend tongue discourse
Of troublous days when War bestrode the land.
On her low chair the dozing grandam knits,
The needles moving when her eyes are closed,
Till the dropped stitch requires the ready aid
Of younger sight and hands. Still at her wheel
Olivia dreams with misty, brooding eye,
While flies the flax between her fingers warm,
And on the spindle grows the oval spool.
And there the larger wheel, whose whirring loud
Makes through the house a tempest of its own,
The matron drives; and, pacing forth and back,
Smooths the white rolls that dwindle as they go.
The easy farmer o'er the journal pours;
Or, musing, clears the western forest lands,
And sows his harvest in the ashen field;
Or drives his plough into the deep, rank soil
Of boundless prairies stretching to the sky,
Till fancy fills the crescent of his hope.
No chilling sound disturbs the pleasing dream;
In vain the winds besiege his stable-walls
Where, mid the well-filled racks, his cattle lie.
And now, responsive to the village spire,
The cock proclaims the hour, and all is well;
While shadowy Time, who stands upon the stair,
Lifts his clear voice, and points his warning hand.
Anon, the flames in ashen depths expire,
And none but crickets cheer the cooling hearth.
Peace bars the doors, Content puts out the lamp,
And Sleep fills up the residue of night.
And still, as sounds the hour-announcing spire,
The crowing cock makes answer, "all is well!"

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book Fifteenth

mrbot — Sun, 11 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

When I recount the pleasant sights of earth —
Fair childhood blowing bubbles in the sun —
A pleasure party, in a moonlit barque;
The little sail with breeze and music swelled —
A dancing wreath of children crowning May —
A bridal group across a distant field
Returning, with gay footsteps, from the church —
I can recall no brighter, nobler scene,
Than men at labour mid the waving grain,
When summer, with its alchemy, transmutes
The crops from green to gold! The harvest sun
Burns broad and white above the yellowing world,
Which, for its plenty, laughs a rustling laugh;
A voice which cheers the hearts of those who strode,
Athwart the yielding ground, with swinging hands,
In springtime, casting bread upon the earth,
To be returned a hundred fold. The air
Hangs hot and silent, save where yonder bird,
The meadow-lark, darts into sudden voice
From out the grain, and in the next tree lights,
And, panting, sings no more; or where, perchance,
The Oriole, careless of its swinging nest,
From whence the young have flown, a moment streaks
The sky with fire and song, and then gives o'er;
Or yon tricoloured bird, with nervous haste
Ascending spirally the sapless trunk,
Drums loudly as he climbs; or locust hid
Swift springs his shrilly rattle; or the small
Green insect, greener than the grass it bends,
With the field cricket lifts its jarring voice;
While his grey brother, on ambitious wings,
Flickers his short flight down the summer road,
Oft dropping in the sultry sand. Behold
The yellow, dainty-pinioned swarm arise,
On simultaneous wings, as soars a flame;
Or, settling where the small spring blots the dust,
Glow like a golden group of butter-cups.

What a calm realm of sunshine gleams the world!
The aspen only feels a phantom breath;
Beneath the great tree's shadow in the field
The silent cattle stand; and in the cool
Deep shade of garden shrubs the fowls are hid,
Fluttering the dust upon their wings, with eye
Suspicious watching oft the hawk which sails,
Noiseless as sleep; upon the lofty air.
Beside the spring, where the tall sycamore,
And one wide willow, roof the cooling spot,
The dairy maid is singing mid her pans,
And skimming off the deep and yellow cream,
While floats abroad the sweet delicious scent
Of cedar from the scalded churn. And now,
With many a rumbling splash, the dasher flies,
Forcing the cream which oozes at the lid.
At length the gathering weight, which lifts and falls,
Denotes the labour through. In days like these,
An hour suffices to transmute the mass,
Which oft, in winter, whirls from morn till noon,
Or later still, refusing to obey —
Withheld, as some have deemed, by witch's charm.
Along the wayside fence, by briery roads,
The ruddy children, with their fingers stained,
Collect the berries which, with milk combined,
Shall to the reaper's hearty palate give
The luscious dessert when the meat is past.
The full fields, like a shepherd's flock in spring,
Yield up their fleeces, till the well-bound sheaves,
In glowing stacks, nod o'er the stubbled farm.
Now sounds the horn 'neath the meridian sun;
And the brown labourers, hurrying to the call,
Beside the deep well lave their heated brows;
Where oft the bucket from the windlass drops,
Rattling till deluged, then, ascending slow,
Comes dripping to the brink, and sends abroad
A cool and grateful freshness. Then behold
Where sweeps the table wide, from door to door,
Looking from east to west. With open brow
The generous matron welcomes in the group;
And there Olivia, not too proud to tend,
But with a flush of pleasure on her face,
Glides gracefully from chair to chair, and helps
The glowing reaper's plate; here fills the glass
With odorous cider, sparkling as it flows,
Or draws the bowl with liquid from the churn,
Cooled at the spring beside the yellow prints.
Here smokes the ample joint, and steaming there
The yellow ears of maize inviting stand,
Fresh from the cauldron drained — delicious food,
To other lands unknown — with much beside.
When this is past, the berries crown the board,
The whortle from the wood, and those at morn
Plucked from the wayside briers. The garden, too,
And orchard lend their fulness to the hour;
For 'tis the season when the generous year
Pours from his plenteous horn the ripened fruit —
The mellow peach, and bursting purple plum,
The early apple, and the golden pear;
But chiefly the huge melon which, when ripe,
Yields, to the pressing hands and listening ear,
A crisp and frosty sound, from out its heart
Of crimson snow, that calls the thirsty knife.
Thus flies the noon, until the heated fields
Recall to labour, and the day goes by.
Now, when the eve sets in, and one by one
The stars come leaping o'er the eastern bar,
And the great moon, aflush with summer heat,
Climbs lazily along the harvest sky —
Where dart the fire-flies with eccentric course,
Oping their frequent dainty lantern-doors,
As if to find a treasure lost — the group
Of reapers gather on the social porch,
And pass the shadowy hour in language meet
The season and the place. And much they talk
Of news which lately, from the far off West,The time represented in this poem, was about the year 1832, at which period, as many will remember, the "backwoods fever" was especially prevalent.
Startled the calm community; as when
Some foreign sound disturbs the labouring hive —
Or bee, returning from exploring search,
Proclaims a land of more enticing sweets,
And wakes a general buzz throughout the swarm.
The younger men are restless to be gone,
And descant largely on the wild pursuit
Of game, exhaustless in the boundless woods.
Some shake the doubtful head — the older these —
And tell of labours long to be endured —
The battle with the forest, and the stern
Privation to be borne, where oft the call
Of chill necessity affrights the soul;
Repeating tales their childhood frequent heard
From sires who mid these hills and valley came,
And, with the guardian fire-arm at their side,
Laid the loud axe unto the woodland foot.
But what was meant to caution and deter,
Inflames the youthful fancy and desire;
And even age detects along his veins
A curious yet an unacknowledged glow,
And feels an impulse rising in his breast
He hath not felt for years; and, to conceal
How much his spirit echoes younger thought,
Puts by the subject with some careless jest,
And turns the converse on to-morrow's task.
Now see where strides, o'er many a homeward field
The hired labourer to his lowly cot:
The shouldered sickle, by the moonshine lit,
Gleams like a rising crescent. At the door
His happy wife, and happier children, stand
And welcome his return. Then to his couch,
To others hard, luxurious to him,
Softened by toil, he turns and drains the cup —
The drowning cup of sleep — unto the dregs.

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855

Book First

mrbot — Mon, 01 May 2017 08:15:47 +0000

Fair Pennsylvania! than thy midland vales,
Lying 'twixt hills of green, and bound afar
By billowy mountains rolling in the blue,
No lovelier landscape meets the traveller's eye.
There Labour sows and reaps his sure reward,
And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow
And perfume of full garners. I have seen
In lands less free, less fair, but far more known,
The streams which flow through history and wash
The legendary shores — and cleave in twain
Old capitols and towns, dividing oft
Great empires and estates of petty kings
And princes, whose domains full many a field,
Rustling with maize along our native West,
Out-measures and might put to shame! and yet
Nor Rhine, like Bacchus crowned, and reeling through
His hills — nor Danube, marred with tyranny,
His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores —
Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring
Athwart the fairest, fruitfullest, and worst
Enslaved of European lands — nor Seine,
Winding uncertain through inconstant France —
Are half so fair as thy broad stream whose breast
Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name
Shall yet become among the names of rivers
A synonym of beauty — Susquehanna!
But where, fair land, thy smaller streams invite
With music among plenteous farms, I turn,
As to a parent's fond embrace, and lay,
Well pleased, my way-worn mantle by, and shed,
With grateful heart, from off my weary feet
The white dust gathered in the world's highway.
Here my young muse first learned to love and dream —
To love the simplest blossom by the road —
To dream such dreams as will not come again.
And for one hour of that unlettered time —
One hour of that wild music in the heart,
When Fancy, like the swallow's aimless wing,
Flitted eccentric through all moods of nature —
I would exchange, thrice told, this weary day.
Then were yon hills, still beautiful and blue,
Great as the Andes; and this rushy brook,
Which the light foot-board, fallen, turns aside,
A flood considerable, with noisy falls
And gulfy pools profound; and yonder stream,
The fisher wades with ease to throw his bait
Into the larger ripple, was a river
To measure Jordan by! For then my thoughts
Were full of scriptural lore, oft-heard at morn,
And in the evening heard, until the place
Became a Palestine, while o'er the hills
The blue horizon compassed all the world.

Adieu to Fancy! Let me ope the gate,
Wide as the lane it bars, and cool my feet
Along the grassy path, and turn with joy,
As erst, to yonder chapel on the hill.
Lo! the calm Sabbath sanctifies the air,
And over all, from God's uplifted hand,
The silence falls, and, like a blessing, lies
The stillness on my spirit. The sweet sounds,
Which unprohibited from Eden time till now
Have charmed alike the day of toil and rest,
Alone assail the ear, making the quiet heard,
Soothing the soul as with a psalm! Yon bird
Which soars and falls, swinging its way thro' heaven
On airy billows, and this brook which sings
The better for the obstacles opposed,
As bards have done, together with the sounds
Of lesser note, which come from these small choirs
In leafy chapels closed, make to the ear
A music lovelier than the brazen notes
Blown through the serried pillars of cathedrals.

It is the Spring time: April violets glow
In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,
Like shy elves hiding from the traveller's eye;
The mellow air, which from the woodland comes,
Is full of perfume shed from opening buds.
There the young maple, earlier putting forth,
In memory of the past dead Autumn gleams,
And waves its purple torch; and o'er the spring,
The willow its own sprouting in the pool
Hangs watching; while the dryad in its branches
Is dreaming of the hours when that fair maid,
The child and light of yonder cot, shall come
And, kneeling, laugh above her urn to see
Her sweet face wrinkled by prophetic waters.
The plough in this broad field with upthrown share,
There left at yester sunset, lies at rest
Along the midway furrow. Here the maize
Shall rustle through the summer; while near by
Already the live grain, which 'neath the snow
Slept the white winter through, sends up its green
And whispers in the sunshine.

Lo! anon,
From hillside homes and hamlets in the vale,
One after one, in Sabbath garb arrayed,
Their mantles breathing of deep oaken drawers
And antique chests, the people throng, and take
The various pathways which converging lead
Here to this quiet shrine among the elms.
Oh, happy hour, beloved of peace and heaven!
Around, and over all, the white calm lies
Flooded with perfume and mysterious light;
So sweet, so beautiful, it seems a day
Lost out of Eden! See, where children come,
Like hopes unchecked, still running in advance,
With innocent laughter, but not over loud,
Plucking the purple violets by the way;
While from their feet the butterfly, released
But yesterday from out his winter cell,
Darts up with devious flight, and, like a wisp,
Wavers across the meadow! Happy sounds,
By happier faces followed, still approach.
What round and ruddy cheeks are there, to which
Health, like the sun, with daily welcome comes,
Leaving the impress of his glowing hand!
But suddenly their tongues to whispers low
Drop, as their eyes look wondering on the stranger,
And into decorous columns, two by two,
They file before me with shy glances cast
From shadowy brims and snowy hoods turned back,
By matron care arranged. Some in their hands
Bear the small volume — book of praise or prayer;
And some with freedom-loving feet released
Printing the dusty path, their little shoes,
For Sunday polished, carry at the side,
To be resumed at yonder stile which gains
The highway near the church. And, following, soon
The larger people come; the youths and maids
Joining their steps as chance or fancy leads;
And, after these, stout men with faces brown,
And browner hands which on the plough-helves took,
Ungloved, the last week's sunshine. At their side
The matrons with fair brows but half-way cleared
Of household cares, which, oft accomplished, still
As oft recur, monotonous, only cheered
By virtuous sense of duty and the light
Of happy children, or encouraging words
Heard at the well-served meal; or better still,
Finding approval in their own calm hearts,
Whose gentle tempers round their daily toil
Shed music and a halo else unknown.
Here following still, with reverend steps and slow,
Their garments venerable with age, and out
Of joint with modern custom, come the sires
And mothers of the country, silver-haired.
One leans upon his cane, with knotted hands,
An oak long bowed and gnarled by tempests; one
Stands upright as a winter pine. To-day
He comes not in his long surtout of drab —
The coat of many capes and sweeping skirt,
Brushing the stubble, proof to winds rheumatic —
Now laid aside until November calls,
But in the spring-time garments of the past.
See what a brow is there, where Time delights
To place the warning record of the years!
Note the calm eye, grown mild with light of wisdom!
Assisted by his arm his partner, bowed,
Walks tottering, with a palsy-shaking head,
And mumbling to herself. Perchance she dreams,
Within her hazy brain, of that bright hour,
Now buried beneath half a century,
When on the selfsame arm she proudly leaned,
And, with the blush of youth upon her cheek,
Crossed this same pasture, and, returning, heard
And answered to another name. Her hopes
Of earth have all been realized — her dreams
Have, one by one, gone floating down the past,
Like bubbles in the sun, where envious years
Have touched them into nothing, and now point
Derision at the empty places. Thus
Full many a heart grows old, and spirit bowed,
In intellectual want — a poverty
Scarce second to the need of bread! For what,
When all the joys which stir our inward life,
And wake a pleasure in the blood, are dead
Or dying at their sources, can renew
Long past enjoyment, like the power of thought
Drawn from a wisdom gleaned in fields of knowledge?
And many a life, before its time, thus wilts
And withers to the root, and to each wind,
Adverse or fair, rustles its sad complaint,
Which else should sway with music. They should store,
Like bees in summer, for their winter want,
Nor leave improvidence to clip their wings.
Not so the form she leans on: unto him
Each sight and sound of Nature is a page
Full of fresh thought and pleasing contemplation.
A man not deep in books, but in research,
Among the hidden lore which round him lies
Most practical; and all the neighbourhood
Holds him an oracle, and reverence pays,
As well they may; for he, within these bounds,
Has held the keys of knowledge many a year,
Teaching in yonder rude house in the grove.
All these are of his scholars — first to last
Have laid their little books upon his knee,
And stumbled through their lessons undismayed,
Guided with kindness; and in every heart
Is Master Ethan filially remembered.
His son, a man of mild and easy mood —
A nature far more gentle than befits
One who must struggle with a stubborn soil —
Walks hearkening to his sire's discourse. And next,
Lo, the staid matron, with emphatic step,
Whose every movement speaks her stately soul —
The undaunted mistress of her narrow realm,
With all th' amenities which goodness gives —
A woman fit for heroes to call mother!
With form less tall and full, the daughter comes,
Her blonde hair waving round her gentle brow —
A face to be remembered, and, methinks,
Not easily forgotten; for that eye,
So deep and blue, where starry truth abides,
As in the fabled well, once on your own
Falling, with its miraculous pure light,
Stays not upon the face, but to the heart
Looks in, as through a casement, and the soul
Then feels as if an angel, going by,
Had glanced, and left its smile in passing!
And should your feet e'er wander to these vales,
The farms of Hazel-meadow, many a tongue
This picture shall attest, and, as they speak,
Mark if the sigh comes not with confirmation.
For there are hearts to which that face hath grown
A part and a necessity, as grows
A child unto the sunshine of a household;
And oft the neighbouring groves shall hear her name,
As some lone peasant takes his woodland way,
Recalling the bright summers of the past.
"Olivia!" they'll sigh, with slackened pace,
And all the leaves reply "Olivia!"
Yet unattended by the swains gallant,
Nor yet free mingling with the joyous groups
Of neighbour-maidens, from her childhood known,
She keeps her Sabbath way; still cheerful, though
Her eyes are now more kin to tears than smiles.
Nor are cold glances, sidelong looks unkind,
And jealous hate, accusing her of pride,
From former playmates cast upon her now;
But words all gentleness, and eyes all love,
Meet her where'er she turns, which kindly say,
If not in language, in each tone and act,
"We know, dear friend, the secret which you keep,
And whence the fountain of that spring tear
The smile not wholly hides. We know the pain
Which cankers at that rose upon your cheek.
We also grieve the absence which you grieve,
And mourn the distance 'twixt his heart and ours,
And pray for his return. Ships come and go,
The sea gives up its living, day by day,
And presently our Arthur shall return,
Full of brave life and wisdom — shall return,
Glowing with noble thoughts and filled with hope,
The promise of great actions. Then, beneath
The summer shade, or by the blazing hearth,
His voice shall cheer the noonday or the eve,
Recounting, with accustomed eloquence,
Rare tales of travel, intermixed with song."
Such is the comfort in each look and word
Which soothes awhile her fancy, but not long;
For absence is a shadow which no light
Can utterly dispel — a prison door,
Before the spirit, made of grated bars,
Through which the brightest day can only send
A checkered sunshine. Here next, following, come
The happy members of the parson's household;
And last, with thoughtful care conning, perchance,
The plain, unwritten sermon of the day,
The parson walks, a man of fifty years,
Who half his life has laboured in this field,
Baptizing, marrying, — and burying oft
Where death had put asunder. His broad brow
The quiet storehouse is of wisdom, learned
From open nature, and vouchsafed from God.
All week he tends within his noisy mill,
Whose wheel now hangs and dreams o'er yonder stream,
And bends his brawny shoulders to the sacks
Which daily cross the threshold; or among
The ceaseless jar and whirr of rumbling stones,
And clattering hoppers, garrulous with grain,
He walks amid the misty meal, and plans
The solemn lesson for the coming Sabbath.
His heart is full of boundless sympathies:
The stranger and the friend, the erring or
The good, come not within his genial voice
Or smile, but they go hence with firm resolve
For happy change, or strengthened in the right.
The old or young, departing, bear away
The influence of his spirit in their hearts,
E'en as they bear the mill-dust on their garments.
The sire of Arthur he, the youth who now
Wanders in foreign lands, by romance led,
Bearing the hearts and hopes of many hence;
But chiefly hers, long deemed by all his choice.

By various ways the people still come in:
Here on the hillside path, and swinging arms,
Weaving the air with visionary shuttles,
Gaunt Bowman mounts, ascending as on treadles —
Bowman, chief weaver of the vale; his wife
Close following, like himself, arrayed in suit
Of homemade russet. Down the dusty road
The vehicles, of various forms, approach:
The rattling wagon, out of joint and loose,
With temporary seats, and difficult
For unaccustomed riders; and the chaise
With rocking motion, easy as a chair,
Drawn by a jogging steed whose shoulders still
Feel the fresh record of the yester plough.
Some, rudely mounted as equestrians, come;
The switch held upward, like a sword; the horse,
With swinging head, blowing the foam in air:
And here, anon, the family steed is seen
Bearing a double burthen with slow pace.
How all the landscape, with the Sabbath scene,
Smiles with a bland and staid propriety!

About the chapel door, in easy groups,
The rustic people wait. Some trim the switch,
While some prognosticate of harvests full,
Or shake the dubious head, with arguments
Based on the winter's frequent snow and thaw,
The heavy rains, and sudden frosts severe.
Some, happily but few, deal scandal out,
With look askance pointing their victim. These
Are the rank tares in every field of grain —
These are the nettles stinging unaware —
The briers which wound and trip unheeding feet —
The noxious vines, growing in every grove!
Their touch is deadly, and their passing breath
Poison most venomous! Such have I known —
As who has not? — and suffered by the contact.
Of these the husbandman takes certain note,
And in the proper season disinters
Their baneful roots; and, to the sun exposed,
The killing light of truth, leaves them to pine
And perish in the noonday! 'Gainst a tree,
With strong arms folded o'er a giant chest,
Stands Barton, to the neighbourhood chief smith;
His coat, unused to aught save Sunday wear,
Grown too oppressive by the morning walk,
Hangs on the drooping branch: so stands he oft
Beside the open door, what time the share
Is whitening at the roaring bellows' mouth.
There, too, the wheelwright — he, the magistrate—
In small communities a man of mark —
Stands with the smith, and holds such argument
As the unlettered but observing can;
Their theme some knot of scripture hard to solve.
And 'gainst the neighbouring bars two others fan,
Less fit the sacred hour, discussion hot
Of politics; a topic, which inflamed,
Knows no propriety of time or place.
There Oakes, the cooper, with rough brawny hand,
Descants at large, and, with a noisy ardour,
Rattles around his theme as round a cask;
While Hanson, heavy browed, with shoulders bent,
Bent with great lifting of huge stones — for he
A mason and famed builder is — replies
With tongue as sharp and dexterous as his trowel,
And sentences which like his hammer fall,
Bringing the flinty fire at every blow!

But soon the approaching parson ends in peace
The wordy combat, and all turn within.
Awhile rough shoes, some with discordant creak,
And voices clearing for the psalm, disturb
The sacred quiet, till, at last, the veil
Of silence wavers, settles, falls; and then
The hymn is given, and all arise and sing.
Then follows prayer, which from the pastor's heart
Flows unpretending, with few words devout
Of humble thanks and askings; not, with lungs
Stentorian, assaulting heaven's high wall,
Compelling grace by virtue of a siege!
This done, with loving care he scans his flock,
And opes the sacred volume at the text.
Wide is his brow, and full of honest thought —
Love his vocation, truth is all his stock.
With these he strives to guide, and not perplex
With words sublime and empty, ringing oft
Most musically hollow. All his facts
Are simple, broad, sufficient for a world!
He knows them well, teaching but what he knows.
He never strides through metaphysic mists,
Or takes false greatness because seen through fogs;
Nor leads 'mid brambles of thick argument
Till all admire the wit which brings them through;
Nor e'er essays, in sermon or in prayer,
To share the hearer's thought; nor strives to make
The smallest of his congregation lose
One glimpse of heaven, to cast it on the priest.
Such simple course, in these ambitious times,
Were worthy imitation; in these days,
When brazen tinsel bears the palm from worth,
And trick and pertness take the sacred desk;
Or some coarse thund'rer, armed with doctrines new,
Aims at our faith a blow to fell an ox —
Swinging his sledge, regardless where it strikes,
Or what demolishes — well pleased to win
By either blows or noise! — A modern seer,
Crying destruction! and, to prove it true,
Walking abroad, for demolition armed,
And boldly levelling where he cannot build!

The service done, the congregation rise,
And with a freshness glowing in their hearts,
And quiet strength, the benison of prayer,
And wholesome admonition, hence depart.
Some, loath to go, within the graveyard loiter,
Walking among the mounds, or on the tombs,
Hanging, like pictured grief beneath a willow,
Bathing the inscriptions with their tears; or here,
Finding the earliest violet, like a drop
Of heaven's anointing blue upon the dead,
Bless it with mournful pleasure; or, perchance,
With careful hands, recall the wandering vine,
And teach it where to creep, and where to bear
Its future epitaph of flowers. And there,
Each with a separate grief, and some with tears,
Ponder the sculptured lines of consolation.

"The chrysalis is here — the soul is flown,
And waits thee in the gardens of the blest!"
"The nest is cold and empty, but the bird
Sings with its loving mates in Paradise!"
"Our hope was planted here — it blooms in heaven!"
"She walks the azure field, 'mid dews of bliss,
While 'mong the thorns our feet still bleed in this!"
"This was the fountain, but the sands are dry —
The waters have exhaled into the sky!"
"The listening Shepherd heard a voice forlorn,
And found the lamb, by thorns and brambles torn,
And placed it in his breast! Then wherefore mourn?"

Such are the various lines; and, while they read,
Methinks I hear sweet voices in the air,
And winnowing of soft, invisible wings,
The whisperings of angels breathing peace!

Thomas Buchanan Read

1855