Then he said to the great All-Father, "Thy daughter is weak and blind; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind.
"Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild; Let the holy love of the mother Turn again to her child.
"Make her lips like the lips of Mary Kissing her blessed Son; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one.
"Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison-door, And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore."
Then into the face of its mother The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.
A beam of the slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair, Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder, And the rings of pale gold hair.
She kissed it on lip and forehead, She kissed it on cheek and chin, And she bared her snow-white bosom To the lips so pale and thin.
Oh, fair on her bridal morning Was the maid who blushed and smiled, But fairer to Ezra Dalton Looked the mother of his child.
With more than a lover's fondness He stooped to her worn young face, And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace.
"Blessed be God!" he murmured.
"Blessed be God!" she said; "For I see, who once was blinded,-- I live, who once was dead.
"Now mount and ride, my goodman, As thou lovest thy own soul Woe's me, if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole!"
His horse he saddled and bridled, And into the night rode he, Now through the great black woodland, Now by the white-beached sea.
He rode through the silent clearings, He came to the ferry wide, And thrice he called to the boatman Asleep on the other side.
He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newbury town, And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown.
And the grave and worshipful justice (Upon whose soul be peace!) Set his name to the jailer's warrant For Goodwife Cole's release.
Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail; And Goody Cole at cockcrow Came forth from Ipswich jail.
1865
"Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare To venture on its theme worn out; What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr Sounds simply silly hereabout; And pipes by lips Arcadian blown Are only tin horns at our own.
Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."
THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.
Attitash, an Indian word signifying "huckleberry," is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury.
In sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen,
When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather, Two maidens sat together.
They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood; The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat;
Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying; Hardback, and virgin's-bower, And white-spiked clethra-flower.
With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash, The wood-bird's plaintive cry, The locust's sharp reply.
And teased the while, with playful band, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, Whose uncouth frolic spilled Their baskets berry-filled.
Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, lightly laughing, said:
"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold; I tread no cottage-floor; I own no lover poor.
"My love must come on silken wings, With bridal lights of diamond rings, Not foul with kitchen smirch, With tallow-dip for torch."
The other, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed, With look for home-hearths meet, And voice exceeding sweet,
Answered, "We will not rivals be; Take thou the gold, leave love to me; Mine be the cottage small, And thine the rich man's hall.
"I know, indeed, that wealth is good; But lowly roof and simple food, With love that hath no doubt, Are more than gold without."
Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung, Tracking the yellow plain With windrows of ripe grain.
And still, whene'er he paused to whet His scythe, the sidelong glance he met Of large dark eyes, where strove False pride and secret love.
Be strong, young mower of the-grain; That love shall overmatch disdain, Its instincts soon or late The heart shall vindicate.
In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod, Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod The margin of the pond, Watching the group beyond.
The supreme hours unnoted come; Unfelt the turning tides of doom; And so the maids laughed on, Nor dreamed what Fate had done,--
Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees, As, with their lives forecast, Fisher and mower passed.
Erelong by lake and rivulet side The summer roses paled and died, And Autumn's fingers shed The maple's leaves of red.
Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, Alone, but for the diving loon, The partridge in the brake, The black duck on the lake,
Beneath the shadow of the ash Sat man and maid by Attitash; And earth and air made room For human hearts to bloom.
Soft spread the carpets of the sod, And scarlet-oak and golden-rod With blushes and with smiles Lit up the forest aisles.
The mellow light the lake aslant, The pebbled margin's ripple-chant Attempered and low-toned, The tender mystery owned.
And through the dream the lovers dreamed Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed; The sunshine seemed to bless, The air was a caress.
Not she who lightly laughed is there, With scornful toss of midnight hair, Her dark, disdainful eyes, And proud lip worldly-wise.
Her haughty vow is still unsaid, But all she dreamed and coveted Wears, half to her surprise, The youthful farmer's guise!