For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink

Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves;

For them in vain October's holocaust Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills,

The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, feariui of the unseen Powers,

But grumbling over pulpit-tax and

pew-rent,

Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls

And winter pork with the least pos

ble outlay

Of salt and sanctity; in daily life Showing as little actual comprehension Of Christian charity and love and duty, As if the Sermon on the Mount had been

Outdated like a last year's almanac : Rich in broad woodlands and in halt tilled fields,

And yet so pinched and bare and com fortless,

The veriest straggler limping on hu rounds,

The sun and air his sole inheritance, Laughed at a poverty that paid it. taxes,

And hugged his rags in self-compla cency!

Not such should be the homesteads of a land

Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell

As king and lawgiver, in broad-acre i

state,

With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make

His hour of leisure richer than a life Of fourscore to the barons of old time, Our yeoman should be equal to his home

Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled,

A man to match his mountains, not to

creep

Dwarfed and abased below them. I

would fain

In this light way (of which I needs

must own

With the knife grinder of whom Canning sings,

"Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you !",

Invite the eye to see and heart to feel The beauty and the joy within their reach,

Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes

Of nature free to all. Haply in years That wait to take the places of our

own,

Heard where some breezy balcony looks down

On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon

Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth,

In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet

Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine May seem the burden of a prophecy, Finding its late fulfilment in a change Slow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood up

Through broader culture, finer manners, love,

And reverence, to the level of the hills.

401

AMONG THE HILLS.

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 westwind 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 ;

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.

403

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.

"Through her his civic service shows
A purer-toned ambition;
No double consciousness divides
The inau and politician.

"In party's doubtful ways be 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,