Years went and came. At close of day Singing came a child from play, Tossing from her loose-locked head Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.
Pride was in the mother's look, But her head she gravely shook, And with lips that fondly smiled Feigned to chide her truant child.
Unabashed, the maid began "Up and down the brook I ran, Where, beneath the bank so steep, Lie the spotted trout asleep.
"'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall, After me I heard him call, And the cat-bird on the tree Tried his best to mimic me.
"Where the hemlocks grew so dark That I stopped to look and hark, On a log, with feather-hat, By the path, an Indian sat.
"Then I cried, and ran away; But he called, and bade me stay; And his voice was good and mild As my mother's to her child.
"And he took my wampum chain, Looked and looked it o'er again; Gave me berries, and, beside, On my neck a plaything tied."
Straight the mother stooped to see What the Indian's gift might be.
On the braid of wampum hung, Lo! a cross of silver swung.
Well she knew its graven sign, Squando's bird and totem pine; And, a mirage of the brain, Flowed her childhood back again.
Flashed the roof the sunshine through, Into space the walls outgrew; On the Indian's wigwam-mat, Blossom-crowned, again she sat.
Cool she felt the west-wind blow, In her ear the pines sang low, And, like links from out a chain, Dropped the years of care and pain.
From the outward toil and din, From the griefs that gnaw within, To the freedom of the woods Called the birds, and winds, and floods.
Well, O painful minister!
Watch thy flock, but blame not her, If her ear grew sharp to hear All their voices whispering near.
Blame her not, as to her soul All the desert's glamour stole, That a tear for childhood's loss Dropped upon the Indian's cross.
When, that night, the Book was read, And she bowed her widowed head, And a prayer for each loved name Rose like incense from a flame,
With a hope the creeds forbid In her pitying bosom hid, To the listening ear of Heaven Lo! the Indian's name was given.
1860.
MY PLAYMATE.
THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine?
She left us in the bloom of May The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown,-- No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems,-- If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice; Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine?
What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours,-- That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea,--
The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee!
1860.
COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION.
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.