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For weeks the clouds had raked the hills And vexed the vales with raining, And all the woods were sad with mist, And all the brooks complaining.
At last, a sudden night-storm tore The mountain veils asunder, And swept the valleys clean before The besom of the thunder.
Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang Good morrow to the cotter; And once again Chocorua's horn Of shadow pierced the water.
Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing, Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing.
Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter's keenness; And, close on autumn's frost, the vales Had more than June's fresh greenness.
Again the sodden forest floors With golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered.
It was as if the summer's late Atoning for it's sadness Had borrowed every season's charm To end its days in gladness.
Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains,-- The great sun flaming through the rifts Beyond the wall of mountains.
We paused at last where home-bound cows Brought down the pasture's treasure, And in the barn the rhythmic flails Beat out a harvest measure.
We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling.
And through them smote the level sun In broken lines of splendor, Touched the gray rocks and made the green Of the shorn grass more tender.
The maples bending o'er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tinted With yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted.
Keen white between the farm-house showed, And smiled on porch and trellis, The fair democracy of flowers That equals cot and palace.
And weaving garlands for her dog, 'Twixt chidings and caresses, A human flower of childhood shook The sunshine from her tresses.
Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter's keenness; And, close on autumn's frost, the vales Had more than June's fresh greenness.
Again the sodden forest floors With golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered.
It was as if the summer's late Atoning for it's sadness Had borrowed every season's charm To end its days in gladness.
I call to mind those banded vales Of shadow and of shining, Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in day's declining.
We held our sideling way above The river's whitening shallows, By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns Swept through and through by swallows; By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darkly The mountain slopes, and, over all, The great peaks rising starkly.
You should have seen that long hill-range With gaps of brightness riven,-- How through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven,-- On either hand we saw the signs Of fancy and of shrewdness, Where taste had wound its arms of vines Round thrift's uncomely rudeness.
The sun-brown farmer in his frock Shook hands, and called to Mary Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy.
Her air, her smile, her motions, told Of womanly completeness; A music as of household songs Was in her voice of sweetness.
Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better, The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter;-- An inborn grace that nothing lacked Of culture or appliance, The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance.
Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utter The paltry errand of her need To buy her fresh-churned butter?
She led the way with housewife pride, Her goodly store disclosing, Full tenderly the golden balls With practised hands disposing.
Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful glory Of sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story.
The early crickets sang; the stream Plashed through my friend's narration Her rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free-translation.
"More wise," she said, "than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer, She came, when June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer.
"From school and ball and rout she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water.
"Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over; On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover.
"For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing There's iron in our Northern winds; Our pines are trees of healing.
"She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow.
"Beside her, from the summer heat To share her grateful screening, With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning.
"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face Had nothing mean or common,-- Strong, manly, true, the tenderness And pride beloved of woman.
"She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her, And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter.
"'To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready,-- "'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure.' "He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly.
''T is well,' he said, 'for one like you To choose for me so lightly.
"You think, because my life is rude I take no note of sweetness I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness.
"'Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashion When silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion.
"'You think me deaf and blind: you bring Your winning graces hither As free as if from cradle-time We two had played together.
"'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes.
"'The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me You cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me.
"'You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me; What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me?
"'No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another! "'I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding; I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading.' "She looked up in his face of pain So archly, yet so tender 'And if I lend you mine,' she said, 'Will you forgive the lender?
"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waits Behind this silken armor?
"'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming ?' "Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle,-- The giving that is gaining.
"And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter There looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water.
"Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.
"Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming.
"Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching; The still refreshment of the dew Is her unconscious teaching.
"And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing; Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing.
"And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gather, Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather,-- "In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blowing, And sweetly from its thawing veins The maple's blood is flowing,-- "In summer, where some lilied pond Its virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring,-- "The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces.
"Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it.
If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.
"For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is her debtor; Who holds to his another's heart Must needs be worse or better.
"Through her his civic service shows A purer-toned ambition; No double consciousness divides The man and politician.
"In party's doubtful ways he trusts Her instincts to determine; At the loud polls, the thought of her Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon.
"He owns her logic of the heart, And wisdom of unreason, Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, The needed word in season.
"He sees with pride her richer thought, Her fancy's freer ranges; And love thus deepened to respect Is proof against all changes.
"And if she walks at ease in ways His feet are slow to travel, And if she reads with cultured eyes What his may scarce unravel, "Still clearer, for her keener sight Of beauty and of wonder, He learns the meaning of the hills He dwelt from childhood under.
"And higher, warmed with summer lights, Or winter-crowned and hoary, The ridged horizon lifts for him Its inner veils of glory.
"He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him, The wisdom which the woods and hills And toiling men have brought him: "The steady force of will whereby Her flexile grace seems sweeter; The sturdy counterpoise which makes Her woman's life completer.
"A latent fire of soul which lacks No breath of love to fan it; And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid granite.
"How dwarfed against his manliness She sees the poor pretension, The wants, the aims, the follies, born Of fashion and convention.
"How life behind its accidents Stands strong and self-sustaining, The human fact transcending all The losing and the gaining.
"And so in grateful interchange Of teacher and of hearer, Their lives their true distinctness keep While daily drawing nearer.
"And if the husband or the wife In home's strong light discovers Such slight defaults as failed to meet The blinded eyes of lovers, "Why need we care to ask ?--who dreams Without their thorns of roses, Or wonders that the truest steel The readiest spark discloses?
"For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living; Love scarce is love that never knows The sweetness of forgiving.
"We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither; No prouder man election day Rides through the sweet June weather.
"He sees with eyes of manly trust All hearts to her inclining; Not less for him his household light That others share its shining." Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew Before me, warmer tinted And outlined with a tenderer grace, The picture that she hinted.
The sunset smouldered as we drove Beneath the deep hill-shadows.
Below us wreaths of white fog walked Like ghosts the haunted meadows.
Sounding the summer night, the stars Dropped down their golden plummets; The pale arc of the Northern lights Rose o'er the mountain summits, Until, at last, beneath its bridge, We heard the Bearcamp flowing, And saw across the mapled lawn The welcome home lights glowing.
And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if often To rugged farm-life came the gift To harmonize and soften; If more and more we found the troth Of fact and fancy plighted, And culture's charm and labor's strength In rural homes united,-- The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding, And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding.
1868.
THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL.
THE land was pale with famine And racked with fever-pain; The frozen fiords were fishless, The earth withheld her grain.
Men saw the boding Fylgja Before them come and go, And, through their dreams, the Urdarmoon From west to east sailed slow.
Jarl Thorkell of Thevera At Yule-time made his vow; On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone He slew to Frey his cow.
To bounteous Frey he slew her; To Skuld, the younger Norn, Who watches over birth and death, He gave her calf unborn.
And his little gold-haired daughter Took up the sprinkling-rod, And smeared with blood the temple And the wide lips of the god.
Hoarse below, the winter water Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er; Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves, Rose and fell along the shore.
The red torch of the Jokul, Aloft in icy space, Shone down on the bloody Horg-stones And the statue's carven face.
And closer round and grimmer Beneath its baleful light The Jotun shapes of mountains Came crowding through the night.
The gray-haired Hersir trembled As a flame by wind is blown; A weird power moved his white lips, And their voice was not his own.
"The AEsir thirst!" he muttered; "The gods must have more blood Before the tun shall blossom Or fish shall fill the flood.
"The AEsir thirst and hunger, And hence our blight and ban; The mouths of the strong gods water For the flesh and blood of man! "Whom shall we give the strong ones?
Not warriors, sword on thigh; But let the nursling infant And bedrid old man die." "So be it!" cried the young men, "There needs nor doubt nor parle." But, knitting hard his red brows, In silence stood the Jarl.
A sound of woman's weeping At the temple door was heard, But the old men bowed their white heads, And answered not a word.
Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla, A Vala young and fair, Sang softly, stirring with her breath The veil of her loose hair.
She sang: "The winds from Alfheim Bring never sound of strife; The gifts for Frey the meetest Are not of death, but life.
"He loves the grass-green meadows, The grazing kine's sweet breath; He loathes your bloody Horg-stones, Your gifts that smell of death.
"No wrong by wrong is righted, No pain is cured by pain; The blood that smokes from Doom-rings Falls back in redder rain.
"The gods are what you make them, As earth shall Asgard prove; And hate will come of hating, And love will come of love.
"Make dole of skyr and black bread That old and young may live; And look to Frey for favor When first like Frey you give.
"Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows The summer dawn begins The tun shall have its harvest, The fiord its glancing fins." Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell "By Gimli and by Hel, O Vala of Thingvalla, Thou singest wise and well! "Too dear the AEsir's favors Bought with our children's lives; Better die than shame in living Our mothers and our wives.
"The full shall give his portion To him who hath most need; Of curdled skyr and black bread, Be daily dole decreed." He broke from off his neck-chain Three links of beaten gold; And each man, at his bidding, Brought gifts for young and old.
Then mothers nursed their children, And daughters fed their sires, And Health sat down with Plenty Before the next Yule fires.
The Horg-stones stand in Rykdal; The Doom-ring still remains; But the snows of a thousand winters Have washed away the stains.
Christ ruleth now; the Asir Have found their twilight dim; And, wiser than she dreamed, of old The Vala sang of Him 1868.
THE TWO RABBINS.
THE Rabbi Nathan two-score years and ten Walked blameless through the evil world, and then, Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, Met a temptation all too strong to bear, And miserably sinned.

So, adding not Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taught No more among the elders, but went out From the great congregation girt about With sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, Making his gray locks grayer.

Long he prayed, Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laid Open before him for the Bath-Col's choice, Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, Behold the royal preacher's words: "A friend Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end; And for the evil day thy brother lives." Marvelling, he said: "It is the Lord who gives Counsel in need.