Personal Poems, Complete






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!

     With more than all her old-time pride
     She walks the rye-field at his side,
     Careless of cot or hall,
     Since love transfigures all.

     Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground
     Of life is gained; her hands have found
     The talisman of old
     That changes all to gold.

     While she who could for love dispense
     With all its glittering accidents,
     And trust her heart alone,
     Finds love and gold her own.

     What wealth can buy or art can build
     Awaits her; but her cup is filled
     Even now unto the brim;
     Her world is love and him!
     1866.

            .     .     .     .     .

     The while he heard, the Book-man drew
     A length of make-believing face,
     With smothered mischief laughing through
     "Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,
     And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep
     On Yankee hills immortal sheep,
     While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond
     Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."

     The Traveller laughed: "Sir Galahad
     Singing of love the Trouvere's lay!
     How should he know the blindfold lad
     From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?"—"Nay,
     He better sees who stands outside
     Than they who in procession ride,"
     The Reader answered: "selectmen and squire
     Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.

     "Here is a wild tale of the North,
     Our travelled friend will own as one
     Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth
     And lips of Christian Andersen.
     They tell it in the valleys green
     Of the fair island he has seen,
     Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,
     Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore."

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