.
Her fingers shame the ivory keys They dance so light along; The bloom upon her parted lips Is sweeter than the song.
O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles! Her thoughts are not of thee; She better loves the salted wind, The voices of the sea.
Her heart is like an outbound ship That at its anchor swings; The murmur of the stranded shell Is in the song she sings.
She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, But dreams the while of one Who watches from his sea-blown deck The icebergs in the sun.
She questions all the winds that blow, And every fog-wreath dim, And bids the sea-birds flying north Bear messages to him.
She speeds them with the thanks of men He perilled life to save, And grateful prayers like holy oil To smooth for him the wave.
Brown Viking of the fishing-smack! Fair toast of all the town!-- The skipper's jerkin ill beseems The lady's silken gown! But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear For him the blush of shame Who dares to set his manly gifts Against her ancient name.
The stream is brightest at its spring, And blood is not like wine; Nor honored less than he who heirs Is he who founds a line.
Full lightly shall the prize be won, If love be Fortune's spur; And never maiden stoops to him Who lifts himself to her.
Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, With stately stairways worn By feet of old Colonial knights And ladies gentle-born.
Still green about its ample porch The English ivy twines, Trained back to show in English oak The herald's carven signs.
And on her, from the wainscot old, Ancestral faces frown,-- And this has worn the soldier's sword, And that the judge's gown.
But, strong of will and proud as they, She walks the gallery floor As if she trod her sailor's deck By stormy Labrador.
The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, And green are Elliot's bowers; Her garden is the pebbled beach, The mosses are her flowers.
She looks across the harbor-bar To see the white gulls fly; His greeting from the Northern sea Is in their clanging cry.
She hums a song, and dreams that he, As in its romance old, Shall homeward ride with silken sails And masts of beaten gold! Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair, And high and low mate ill; But love has never known a law Beyond its own sweet will! 1862.
THE COUNTESS.
TO E.W.
I inscribed this poem to Dr.Elias Weld of Haverhill, Massachusetts, to whose kindness I was much indebted in my boyhood.

He was the one cultivated man in the neighborhood.

His small but well-chosen library was placed at my disposal.

He is the "wise old doctor" of Snow-Bound.
Count Francois de Vipart with his cousin Joseph Rochemont de Poyen came to the United States in the early part of the present century.

They took up their residence at Rocks Village on the Merrimac, where they both married.