It chanced

That as we turned upon our homeward way,

A drear northeastern storm came howling up

The valley of the Saco; and that girl Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington,

Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled

In gusts around its sharp cold pinnacle, Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streams

Which lave that giant's feet; whose laugh was heard

Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green islands,

Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and visibly drooped

Like a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet inn

Which looks from Conway on the mountains piled

Heavily against the horizon of the north, Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our home:

And while the mist hung over dripping hills,

And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long

Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, We strove to cheer our gentle invalid.

The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, returning,

Recounted his adventures and mishaps;
Gave us the history of his scaly clients,
Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations
Of barbarous law Latin, passages
From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and
fresh

As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire,

Where, under aged trees, the southwest

wind

Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair

Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told, Our youthful candidate forsook his ser

mons,

His commentaries, articles and creeds, For the fair page of human loveliness,

yet by morning breezes blow

From the green hills, immortal in his lays.

And for myself, obedient to her wish, I searched our landlord's proffered library,

A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures

Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them,

Watts' unmelodious psalms, - Astrology's

Last home, a musty pile of almanacs,
And an old chronicle of border wars
And Indian history. And, as I read
A story of the marriage of the Chief
Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo,
Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt
In the old time upon the Merrimack,
Our fair one, in the playful exercise
Of her prerogative, the right divine
Of youth and beauty, -bade us versify
The legend, and with ready pencil
sketched

Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning

To each his part, and barring our excuses With absolute will. So, like the cava

liers

Whose voices still are heard in the Romance

Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks

Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling The ear of languid beauty, plague-exiled From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes

To their fair auditor, and shared by turns Her kind approval and her playful cen

sure.

25

It may be that these fragments owe alone

To the fair setting of their circumstan

ces,

The associations of time, scene, and audience,

Their place amid the pictures which fill up

The chambers of my memory. Yet I

trust

That some, who sigh, while wandering in thought,

Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world,

That our broad land, our sea-like lakes and mountains Piled to the clouds, - our rivers overhung

By forests which have known no other change

For ages, than the budding and the fall

Of leaves, - our valleys lovelier than those

Which the old poets sang of, should

but figure

On the apocryphal chart of speculation As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges,

Rights, and appurtenances, which make

Window-tracery, small and slight,
Woven of the willow white,
Lent a dimly checkered light,

And the night-stars glimmered down,
Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke,
Slowly through an opening broke,
In the low roof, ribbed with oak,

Sheathed with hemlock brown.

Gloomed behind the changeless shade, By the solemn pine-wood made; Through the rugged palisade,

In the open foreground planted,
Glimpses came of rowers rowing,
Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blowing,
Steel-like gleams of water flowing,
In the sunlight slanted.

Here the mighty Bashaba,
Held his long-unquestioned sway,
From the White Hills, far away,

To the great sea's sounding shore;
Chief of chiefs, his regal word
All the river Sachems heard,
At his call the war-dance stirred,
Or was still once more.

There his spoils of chase and war,
Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw,
Panther's skin and eagle's claw,

Lay beside his axe and bow;
And, adown the roof-pole hung,
Loosely on a snake-skin strung,
In the smoke his scalp-locks swung
Grimly to and fro.

Nightly down the river going,
Swifter was the hunter's rowing,
When he saw that lodge-fire glowing
O'er the waters still and red;

And the squaw's dark eye burned

Tales of him the gray squaw told, When the winter night-wind cold Pierced her blanket's thickest fold,

And the fire burned low and small, Till the very child abed, Drew its bear-skin over head, Shrinking from the pale lights shed On the trembling wall.

All the subtle spirits hiding
Under earth or wave, abiding
In the caverned rock, or riding
Misty clouds or morning breeze;
Every dark intelligence,
Secret soul, and influence
Of all things which outward sense
Feels, or hears, or sees,-

These the wizard's skill confessed, At his bidding banned or blessed, Stormful woke or lulled to rest

27

Wind and cloud, and fire and flood; Burned for him the drifted snow, Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, And the leaves of summer grow Over winter's wood!

Not untrue that tale of old!
Now, as then, the wise and bold
All the powers of Nature hold
Subject to their kingly will;
From the wondering crowds ashore,
Treading life's wild waters o'er,
As upon a marble floor,

Moves the strong man still.

Still, to such, life's elements
With their sterner laws dispense,
And the chain of consequence

Broken in their pathway lies;
Time and change their vassals making,
Flowers from icy pillows waking,
Tresses of the sunrise shaking
Over midnight skies.

Still, to earnest souls, the sun
Rests on towered Gibeon,
And the moon of Ajalon

Lights the battle-grounds of life; To his aid the strong reverses Hidden powers and giant forces, And the high stars, in their courses, Mingle in his strife!

ter's way:

And dazzling in the summer noon The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray!

Unknown to her the rigid rule,
The dull restraint, the chiding
frown,

The weary torture of the school,
The taming of wild nature down.
Her only lore, the legends told

Around the hunter's fire at night; Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled, Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight.

Unknown to her the subtle skill

With which the artist-eye can trace In rock and tree and lake and hill The outlines of divinest grace; Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest, Which sees, admires, yet yearns

alway;