Forgetful of the old; the seasons went Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent Of their own calm and measureless content.
Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing His song of welcome to the Western spring, And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.
And when the miracle of autumn came, And all the woods with many-colored flame Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame,
Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a sound Spake to him from each kindled bush around, And made the strange, new landscape holy ground
And when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift, Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift, He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift
Of verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hash Of corn and beans in Indian succotash; Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash
Of wit and fine conceit,--the good man's play Of quiet fancies, meet to while away The slow hours measuring off an idle day.
At evening, while his wife put on her look Of love's endurance, from its niche he took The written pages of his ponderous book.
And read, in half the languages of man, His "Rusca Apium," which with bees began, And through the gamut of creation ran.
Or, now and then, the missive of some friend In gray Altorf or storied Nurnberg penned Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend
The night beneath his roof-tree. Mystical The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal
Human and sweet, as if each far, low tone, Over the roses of her gardens blown Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own.
Wise Spener questioned what his friend could trace Of spiritual influx or of saving grace In the wild natures of the Indian race.
And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch, Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook,
To query with him of climatic change, Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range, Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.
And thus the Old and New World reached their hands Across the water, and the friendly lands Talked with each other from their severed strands.
Pastorius answered all: while seed and root Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit Along the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot;
And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knew Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue, And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew.
No idler he; whoever else might shirk, He set his hand to every honest work,-- Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.
Still on the town seal his device is found, Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground, With "Vinum, Linum et Textrinum" wound.
One house sufficed for gospel and for law, Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw, Assured the good, and held the rest in awe.
Whatever legal maze he wandered through, He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view, And justice always into mercy grew.
No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor jail, Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail,
The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land; The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand, And all men took his counsel for command.
Was it caressing air, the brooding love Of tenderer skies than German land knew of, Green calm below, blue quietness above,
Still flow of water, deep repose of wood That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood And childlike trust in the Eternal Good,
Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate, Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait The slow assurance of the better state?
Who knows what goadings in their sterner way O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?
What hate of heresy the east-wind woke?
What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?
Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn The sectary yielded to the citizen, And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.
Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung The air to madness, and no steeple flung Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.
The land slept well. The Indian from his face Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,
Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,-- Giving to kindness what his native pride And lazy freedom to all else denied.
And well the curious scholar loved the old Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,
Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true To God and man than half the creeds he knew.
The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold; The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.
Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun.
About each rustic porch the humming-bird Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred, The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;
And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending, Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending
To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine, Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine, And all the subtle scents the woods combine.
Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm, Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm, Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm
To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel Of labor, winding off from memory's reel A golden thread of music. With no peal
Of bells to call them to the house of praise, The scattered settlers through green forest-ways Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze
The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim Shade of the alders on the rivulet's rim, Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him.
There, through the gathered stillness multiplied And made intense by sympathy, outside The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,
A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume Breathed through the open windows of the room From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom.
Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors came, Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame, Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame,
Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread In Indian isles; pale women who had bled Under the hangman's lash, and bravely said
God's message through their prison's iron bars; And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars From every stricken field of England's wars.
Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt On his moved lips the seal of silence melt.