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Held because it prints The King's Missive three years before the collection this archive's own telling was lifted from.","text_extract":"•  r-  ft  x  E  L  e  Y \nLIBRARY \n\nUN i  'ERSITY  OF \nCALIFORNIA \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE, \n\nAND   OTHER   POEMS. \n\n\n. \n\n\n-.,/\" \n\n\nTHE    KING'S    MISSIVE, \n\n\nAND  OTHER  POEMS. \n\n\nBY \n\n\nJOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. \n\n\nBOSTON: \n\nHOUGHTON,  MIFFLTN  AND  COMPANY, \nftrcs'*, \n\n1881. \n\n\nLOAN  STACK \n\n\nCopyright,  1881, \nBY  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WIIITTIER. \n\nAll  rights  reserved. \n\n\nThe  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: \nElectrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Iloughton  &  Co. \n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\nTim  PRELUDE 7 \n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE \n\nST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 18 \n\nTHE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK \n\nTHE  LOST  OCCASION 28 \n\nTHE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP 33 \n\nTHE  JUBILEE  SINGERS 35 \n\nWITHIN  THE  GATE 37 \n\nTHE  KHAN'S  DEVIL \n\nABRAM  MORRISON 47 \n\n\nVOYAGE  or  THE  JHTTIE \n\n\nBAYARD  TAYLOR  . \n\n\n55 \n\n\nOUR  AUTOCRAT \n\nGARRISON 6G \n\n\n69 \n\n\n:V  NAME 73 \n\nTHE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER 77 \n\n\n637 \n\n\nvi  CONTENTS. \n\nMY  TRUST         .........  83 \n\nTRAILING  ARBUTUS .86 \n\nBY  THEIR  WORKS    ........  88 \n\nTHE  WORD 89 \n\nTHE  BOOK 90 \n\nREQUIREMENT 91 \n\nHELP 92 \n\nUTTERANCE 93 \n\nINSCRIPTIONS. \n\nON  A  SUN-DIAL 95 \n\nON  A  FOUNTAIN 95 \n\nORIENTAL  MAXIMS. \n\nTHE  INWARD  JUDGE 97 \n\nLAYING  UP  TREASURE 98 \n\nCONDUCT 99 \n\nNOTES 100 \n\n\nTHE  PRELUDE. \n\nI  SPEEAD  a  scanty  board  too  late  ; \nThe  old-time  guests  for  whom  I  wait \n\nCome  few  and  slow,  me  thinks,  to-day. \nAh!  who  could  hear- my  messages \nAcross  the  dim  unsounded  seas \n\nOn  which  so  many  have  sailed  away  ! \n\nCome,  then,  old  friends,  who  linger  yet, \nAnd  let  us  meet,  as  we  have  met, \n\nOnce  more  beneath  this  low  sunshine ; \nAnd  grateful  for  the  good  we  've  known, \nThe  riddles  solved,  the  ills  outgrown, \n\nShake  hands  upon  the  border-line. \n\n\n8  THE  PRELUDE. \n\nThe  favor,  asked  too  oft  before, \nFrom  your  indulgent  ears,  once  more \n\nI  crave,  and,  if  belated  lays \nTo  slower,  feebler  measures  move, \nThe  silent  sympathy  of  love \n\nTo  me  is  dearer  now  than  praise. \n\nAnd  ye,  O  younger  friends,  for  whom \nMy  hearth  and  heart  keep  open  room, \n\nCome  smiling  through  the  shadows  long, \nBe  with  me  while  the  sun  goes  down, \nAnd  with  your  cheerful  voices  drown \n\nThe  minor  of  my  even-song. \n\nFor,  equal  through  the  day  and  night, \nThe  wise  Eternal  oversight \n\nAnd  love  and  power  and  righteous  will \nRemain :  the  law  of  destiny \nThe  best  for  each  and  all  must  be, \n\nAnd  life  its  promise  shall  fulfil. \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE.1 \n\n1661. \n\n\nUNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare \n\nTo  cove  and  meadow  and  Common  lot, \nIn  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, \nSat  the  worshipful  Governor  Endicotfc. \nA  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer \nIn  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  feai% \nOf  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill \nHeld  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. \n\nHe  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross  from \n\nout \nThe  flag,  and  cloven  the  May-pole  down, \n\ni  See  Note. \n\n\n10  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. \n\nHarried  the  heathen  round  about, \n\nAnd  whipped   the   Quakers    from   town   to \n\ntown. \n\nEarnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need \nTo  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh  creed, \nHe  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his  zeal \nThe  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. \n\nHis  brow  was  clouded,  his  eye  was  stern, \nWith  a  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and  wrath ; \n\n\"  Woe 's  me  !  \"  he  murmured :  \"  at  every  turn \nThe  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path! \n\nSome  we  have  scourged,  and  banished  some, \n\nSome  hanged,  more    doomed,   and   still   they \ncome, \n\nFast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, \n\nSowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. \n\n\"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?     Did  we  leave  behind \nThe   graves   of   our   kin,  the   comfort    and \nease \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  11 \n\nOf  our  English  hearths  and  homes,  to  find \n\nTroublers  of  Israel  such  as  these? \nShall    I    spare?      Shall    I    pity    them?      God \n\nforbid ! \n\nI  will  do  as  the  prophet  to   A  gag  did  : \nThey  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the  Word, \nI  will  hew  them  in  pieces  before  the  Lord  !  \" \n\nThe  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the  clerk \n\nEntered,  and  whispered  under  breath,  — \n\"  There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's  work \n\nA  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — \nShattuck,  of  Salem,  unhealed  of  the  whip, \nBrought  over  in  Master  Goldsmith's  ship \nAt  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, \nWith  freight  of  the  devil  and  all  his  sort!\" \n\nTwice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor \nStriding  fiercely  from  wall  to  wall, \n\n\"The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more,\" \n\nThe  Governor  cried,  \"if  I  hang  not  at  all! \n\n\n12  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. \n\nBring  hither  the  Quaker.\"     Calm,  sedate, \nWith  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with  fate, \nInto  that  presence  grim  and  dread \nCame  Samuel  Shattuck,  with  hat  on  head. \n\n\"  Off  with  the  knave's  hat !  \"     An  angry  hand \nSmote  down   the   offence;   but   the  wearer \n\nsaid, \n\nWith  a  quiet  smile,  \"  By  the  king's  command \nI  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his  stead.\" \nIn  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid \nWith  the  royal  arms  on  its  seal  displayed, \nAnd  the  proud  man  spake,  as  he  gazed  thereat, \nUncovering,  \"  Give  Mr.  Shattuck  his  hat,\" \n\nHe  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low, — \n\"  The  king   coinmancleth   your   friends'   re \nlease, \n\nDoubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although \nTo  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's  increase. \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  13 \n\nWhat  lie  here  enjoineth,  John  Endicott, \nHis  loyal  servant,   questioneth  not. \nYou  are  free  !     God  grant  the  spirit  you  own \nMay  take  you  from  us  to  parts  unknown.\" \n\nSo  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, \n\nAnd,,  like  Daniel,  out  of  the  lion's  den \nTender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, \n\nWith    age-bowed    women    and    gray-locked \n\nmen. \n\nAnd  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die \nWas  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  high, \nAnd  the  little  maid  from  New  Netherlands \nKissed,  in  her  joy,  the  doomed   man's  hands. \n\nAnd  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister \n\nTo  the  souls  in  prison,  beside  him  w7ent, \n\nAn  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her \nThe  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. \n\nFor  she,  not  counting  her  owrn  life  dear, \n\nIn  the  streno-th  of  a  love  that  cast  out  fear, \n\n\n14  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. \n\nHad  watched  and  served  where  her   brethren \n\ndied, \nLike  those  who  waited  the  cross  beside. \n\nOne  moment  they  paused  on  their  way  to  look \nOn  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common  side, \n\nAnd  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem  took \nHis  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried: \n\n\"  Rest,  souls  of  the  valiant !     Not  in  vain \n\nHave  ye  borne  the  Master's  cross  of  pain ; \n\nYe  have  fought  the  fight,  ye  are  victors \ncrowned, \n\nWith  a  fourfold  chain  ye  have  Satan  bound  ! \" \n\nThe  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still \n\nOn  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms; \n\nOn  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  windmill \nSlowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms ; \n\nBroad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, \n\nWith  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise  bay ; \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  15 \n\nAnd  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines \nBlue  bills  lifted  their  faint  outlines. \n\nThe  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, \nThe  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, \n\nAnd  double  in  air  and  water  showed \nThe  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck; \n\nThrough  frost  flower  clusters  of  pale  star-mist, \n\nAnd  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, \n\nAnd  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, \n\nThe  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. \n\nBut  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers  saw \n\nThe  world  about  them;    they  only  thought \nWith  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe \n\nOn  the  great  deliverance  God  had  wrought. \nThrough  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town \nNoisily  followed  them  up  and  down  ; \nSome  with  scofling  and  brutal  jeer, \nSome  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. \n\n\n16  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. \n\nOne  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. \n\nUpsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, \nCried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lion  Inn: \n\n\"Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise! \nNo  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down \nThe  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. \nThe  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, \nIs  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. \n\n\"  I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, \n\nWhen  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay \nShall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, \n\nAnd  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights  gainsay. \nThe  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend \nAnd  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, \nAnd  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise \nWalls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise.\" \n\nSo  passed  the  Quakers  through  Boston  town, \nWhose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see \n\n\nTHE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  17 \n\nThe  walls  of  their  sheep-fold  falling  down, \n\nAnd  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. \nBut  the  years  went  on,  and  brought  no  wrong ; \nWith  milder  counsels  the  State  grew  strong, \nAs  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light \nKept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. \n\nThe  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, \n\nTo  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, \nAnd  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon-shot \nThat  severed  the  chains  of  a  continent. \nWith  its  gentler  mission  of  peace   and  good \nwill \n\nThe  thought  of  the  Quaker  is  living  still, \nAnd  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied \nIs  gospel  and  law  where  the  martyrs  died. \n\n\nST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.2 \n\nTHOUGH  flowers  have  perished  at  the  touch \n\nOf  Frost,  the  early  comer, \nI  hail  the  season  loved  so  much, \n\nThe  good  St.  Martin's  summer. \n\nO  gracious  morn,  with  rose-red  dawn, \nAnd  thin  moon  curving  o'  er  it ! \n\nThe  old  year's  darling,  latest  born, \nMore  loved  than  all  before  it ! \n\nHow  flamed  the  sunrise  through  the  pines  ! \n\nHow  stretched  the  birchen  shadows, \nBraiding  in  long,  wind-wavered  lines \n\nThe  westward  sloping  meadows  ! \n\n2  See  Note. \n\n\nST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  19 \n\nThe  sweet  clay,  opening  as  a  flower \n\nUnfolds  its  petals  tender, \nRenews  for  us  at  noontide's  hour \n\nThe  summer's  tempered  splendor. \n\nThe  birds  are  hushed  ;  alone  the  wind, \nThat  through  the  woodland  searches, \n\nThe  red-oak's  lingering  leaves  can  find, \nAnd  yellow  plumes  of  larches. \n\nBut  still  the  balsam -breathing  pine \n\nInvites  no  thought  of  sorrow, \nNo  hint  of  loss  from  air  like  wine \n\nThe  earth's  content  can  borrow. \n\nThe  summer  and  the  winter  here \n\nMidway  a  truce  are  holding, \nA-  soft,  consenting  atmosphere \n\nTheir  tents  of  peace  enfolding. \n\n\n20  ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. \n\nThe  silent  woods,  the  lonely  hills, \nRise  solemn  in  their  gladness  ; \n\nThe  quiet  that  the  valley  fills \nIs  scarcely  joy  or  sadness. \n\nHow  strange  !  The  autumn  yesterday \nIn  winter's  grasp  seemed  dying; \n\nOn  whirling  winds  from  skies  of  gray \nThe  early  snow  was  flying. \n\nAnd  now,  while  over  Nature's  mood \nThere  steals  a  soft  relenting, \n\nI  will  not  mar  the  present  good, \nForecasting  or  lamenting. \n\nMy  autumn  time  arid  Nature's  hold \n\nA  dreamy  tryst  together, \nAnd,  both  grown  old,  about  us  fold \n\nThe  golden-tissued  weather. \n\n\nST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  21 \n\nI  lean  my  heart  against  the  day \n\nTo  feel  its  bland  caressing; \nI  will  not  let  it  pass  away \n\nBefore  it  leaves  its  blessing. \n\n\nGod's  angels  come  not  as  of  old \nThe  Syrian  shepherds  knew  them  ; \n\nIn  reddening  dawns,  in  sunset  gold, \nAnd  warm  noon  lights  I  view  them. \n\nNor  need  there  is,  in  times  like  this \n\nWhen  heaven  to  earth  draws  nearer, \nOf  wing  or  song  as  witnesses \n\no  O \n\nTo  make  their  presence  clearer. \n\nO  stream  of  life,  whose  swifter  flow \n\nIs  of  the  end  forewarning, \nMethinks  thy  sundown  afterglow' \n\nSeems  less  of  night  than  morning  ! \n\n\n22  ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. \n\nOld  cares  grow  light  ;  aside  I  lay \nThe  doubts  and  fears  that  troubled ; \n\nThe  quiet  of  the  happy  day \nWithin  my  soul  is  doubled. \n\nThat  clouds  must  veil  this  fair  sunshine \n\nNot  less  a  joy  I  find  it  ; \nNor  less  yon  warm  horizon  line \n\nThat  winter  lurks  behind  it. \n\nThe  mystery  of  the  untried  days \nI  close  my  eyes  from  reading ; \n\nHis  will  be  done  whose  darkest  ways \nTo  light  and  life  are  leading  ! \n\nLess  drear  the  winter  night  shall  be, \nIf  memory  cheer  and  hearten \n\nIts  heavy  hours  with  thoughts  of  thee, \nSweet  summer  of  St.  Martin  ! \n\n\nTHE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK/ \n\nCHOTA   NAGPOOR. \n\nWE  have  opened  the  door, \n\nOnce,  twice,  thrice  ! \nWe  have  swept  the  floor, \n\nWe  have  boiled  the  rice. \nCome  hither,  come  hither  ! \nCome  from  the  for  lands, \nCome  from  the  star  lands, \n\nCome  as  before ! \nWe  lived  long  together, \nWe  loved  one  another; \n\nCome  back  to  our  life. \n\nCome  father,  come  mother, \n\n3  See  Note. \n\n\n24     THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK. \n\nCome  sister  and   brother, \n\nChild,  husband,  and  wife, \nFor  you  we  are  sighing. \nCome  take  your  old  places, \nCome  look  in  our  faces, \nThe  dead  on  the  dying, \nCome  home  ! \n\nWe  have  opened  the  door, \n\nOnce,  twice,  thrice! \nWe  have  kindled  the  coals, \n\nAnd  we  boil  the  rice \nFor  the  feast  of  souls. \n\nCome  hither,  come  hither ! \nThink  not  we  fear  you, \nWhose  hearts  are  so  near  you. \nCome  tenderly  thought  on, \nCome  all  imforgotten, \nCome  from  the  shadow-lands, \nFrom  the  dim  meadow-lands \n\n\nTHE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK.     25 \n\nWliere  the  pale  grasses   bend \nLow  to  our  siffliincr. \n\nO  O \n\nCome  father,  come  mother, \nCome  sister  and   brother, \nCome  husband  and  friend, \nThe  dead  to  the  dying, \nCome  home  ! \n\nWe  have  opened  the  door \n\nYou  entered  so  oft ; \nFor  the  feast  of  souls \nWe  have  kindled  the  coals, \n\nAnd  we  boil  the  rice  soft. \nCome  you  who  are  dearest \nTo  us  who  are  nearest, \nCome  hither,  come  hither, \nFrom  out  the  wild  weather; \nThe  storm  clouds  are  flying, \nThe  peepul  is  sighing ; \n\nCome  in  from  the  rain. \n\n\n26     THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK. \n\nCome  father,  come  mother, \nCome  sister  and  brother, \nCome  husband  and  lover, \nBeneath  our  roof -cover. \n\nLook  on  us  again, \nThe  dead  on  the  dying, \nCome  home  ! \n\nWe  have  opened  the  door  ! \nFor  the  feast  of  souls \nWe  have  kindled  the  coals \n\nWe  may  kindle  no  more  ! \nSnake,  fever,  and  famine, \nThe  curse  of  the  Brahmin, \n\nThe  sun  and  the  dew, \nThey  burn  us,  they  bite  us, \nThey  waste  us  and  smite  us ; \n\nOur  days  are  but  few  ! \nIn  strange  lands  far  yonder \nTo  wonder  and  wander \n\nWe  hasten  to  you. \n\n\nTHE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK.     27 \n\nList  then  to  our  sighing, \nWhile  yet  we  are  here  : \n\nNor  seeing  nor  hearing, \n\nWe  wait  without  fearing, \nTo  feel  you  draw  near. \n\nO  dead  to  the  dying \nCome  home  ! \n\n\nTHE   LOST  OCCASION. \n\nSOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, \n\nAt  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, \n\nOr  the  chill  evening  twilight.     Thou, \n\nWhom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow \n\nWith  eyes  of  power  and  Jove's  own  brow, \n\nWith  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills \n\nThy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, \n\nWith  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head \n\nFrom  manliest  stock  inherited \n\nNew  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, \n\nIn  port  and  speech  Olympian ; \n\nWhom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took \n\nA  second  awed  and  wondering  look \n\n(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eyes  of    Greece \n\nOn  Phidias'  unveiled  masterpiece) ; \n\n\nTHE  LOST  OCCASION.  29 \n\nWhose  words,  in  simplest   home-spun  clad, \n\nThe  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, \n\nWith  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach \n\nThe  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech, \n\nSweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent \n\nIn  passion,  cool  in   argument, \n\nOr,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes \n\nAs  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, \n\nCrushing  as  if  with  Talus'  flail \n\nThrough  Error's  logic-woven  mail, \n\nAnd  failing  only  when  they  tried \n\nThe  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — \n\nThou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved \n\nOf  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, \n\nToo  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee, \n\nBeside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, \n\nWhere  long  and  low  the  marsh-lands  spread, \n\nLaid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. \n\nThou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below \nThy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow,  — \n\n\n30  THE  LOST  OCCASION. \n\nThe  late- sprung  mine  that  underlaid \n\nThy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. \n\nThou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter's  wall \n\nThe  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, \n\nAnd  armed  Rebellion   pressing  on \n\nThe  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! \n\nNo  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then \n\nCalled  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, \n\nTo  make  the  Union's  charter  free \n\nAnd  strengthen  law  by  liberty. \n\nHow  had  that  stern  arbitrament \n\nTo  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, \n\nShaming  ambition's  paltry  prize \n\nBefore  thy  disillusioned  eyes  ; \n\nBreaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound \n\nLike  the  green  withes  that  Samson  bound ; \n\nRedeeming,  in  one  effort  grand, \n\nThyself  and  thy  imperilled  land ! \n\nAh,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, \n\nO  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, \n\nThe  gates  of  opportunity! \n\n\nTHE  LOST  OCCASION.  31 \n\nGod  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, \nEach  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. \nWise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack; \nBut  still,  with  memory  turning  back, \nIn  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, \nAnd  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. \n\nAbove  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, \n\nAnd  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow \n\nThe  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore \n\nThe  wave- wash  of  a  lonely  shore, \n\nAnd  sea-bird's  melancholy  cry, \n\nAs  Nature  fain  would  typify \n\nThe  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, \n\nThe  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. \n\nBut,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare \n\nTheir  foreheads  to  diviner  air, \n\n\"Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, \n\nOne  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. \n\nFor  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did \n\nThe  rearing  of  that   pyramid, \n\n\n32  THE  LOST.  OCCASION. \n\nThe  prescient  ages  shaping  with \n\nFire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. \n\nSunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon \n\nWith  hands  of  light  their  benison, \n\nThe  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set \n\nTheir  jewels  in  its  coronet. \n\nAnd  evermore  that  mountain  mass \n\nSeems  climbing  from  the  shadowy^  pass \n\nTo  light,  as  if  to  manifest \n\nThy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! \n\n\nTHE   EMANCIPATION  GROUP. \n\nBOSTON,  1879. \n\nAMIDST  thy  sacred  effigies \nOf  old  renown  give  place, \n\nO  city,  Freedom-loved  !  to  his \nWhose  hand  unchained  a  race. \n\nTake  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not \nSave  in  a  martyr's  grave  — \n\nThe  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, \nBent  to  the  kneeling  slave. \n\nLet  man  be  free !  The  mighty  word \nHe  spake  was  not  his  own  ; \n\nAn  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred \nThese  chiselled  lips  alone. \n\n\n34  THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP. \n\nThe  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, \n\nAlong  his  pathway  ran, \nAnd  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied \n\nThe  ownership  of  man. \n\nWe  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes \nSaw  peril,  strife,  and  pain ; \n\nHis  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, \nAnd  ours  the  priceless  gain. \n\nO  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth \n\nAs  it  is  done  above ! \nBear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth \n\nOf  justice  and  of  love. \n\nStand  in  thy  place  and  testify \n\nTo  coming  ages  long, \nThat  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, \n\nAnd  righteousness  than  wrong. \n\n\nTHE  JUBILEE   SINGERS. \n\nVOICE  of  a  people  suffering  long, \nThe  pathos  of  their  mournful  song, \nThe  sorrow  of  their  night  of  wrong  ! \n\nTheir  cry  like  that  which  Israel  gave, \nA  prayer  for  one  to  guide  and  save, \nLike  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea's  wave ! \n\nThe  stern  accord  her  timbrel  lent \nTo  Miriam's  note  of  triumph  sent \nO'er  Egypt's  sunken  armament ! \n\nThe  tramp  that  startled  camp  and  town, \nAnd  shook  the  walls  of  Slavery  clown, \nThe  spectral  march  of  old  John  Brown! \n\n\n36  THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS. \n\nThe  storm  that  swept  through  battle-days, \n\nThe  triumph  after  long  delays, \n\nThe  bondmen  giving  God  the  praise  ! \n\nVoice  of  a  ransomed  race,  sing  on \nTill  Freedom's  every  right  is  won, \nAnd  Slavery's  every  wrong  undone  ! \n\n\nWITHIN  THE   GATE. \n\nL.    M.    C. \n\nWE  sat  together,  last  May-day,  and  talked \nOf  the  dear  friends  who  walked \n\nBeside  us,  sharers  of  the  hopes  and  fears \nOf  five  and  forty  years \n\nSince  first  we  met  in  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, \n\nAnd  heard  her  battle-horn \nSound    through    the    valleys   of   the   sleeping \nNorth, \n\nCalling  her  children  forth, \n\nAnd  youth  pressed  forward  with  hope-lighted \n\neyes, \nAnd  age,  with  forecast  wise \n\n\n38  WITHIN  THE   GATE. \n\nOf  the  long  strife  before  the  triumph  won, \nGirded  his  armor  on. \n\nSadly,  as  name  by  name  we  called  the  roll, \nWe  heard  the  dead-bells  toll \n\nFor  the  unanswering  many,  and  we  knew \nThe  living  were  the  few. \n\nAnd  we,  who  waited  our  own  call  before \n\nThe  inevitable  door, \nListened  and  looked,  as  all  have  done,  to  win \n\nSome  token  from  within. \n\nNo  sign  we  saw,  we  heard  no  voices  call; \n\nThe  impenetrable  wall \nCast  down  its  shadow,  like  an  awful  doubt, \n\nOn  all  who  sat  without. \n\nOf  many  a  hint  of  life  beyond  the  veil, \nAnd  many  a  ghostly  tale \n\n\nWITHIN  THE   GATE.  39 \n\nWherewith  the  ages  spanned  the  gulf  between \nThe  seen  and  the  unseen, \n\nSeeking  from  omen,  trance,  and  dream  to  gain \n\nSolace  to  doubtful  pain, \n\nAnd  touch,  with  groping  hands,  the  garment \nhem \n\nOf  truth  sufficing  them, \n\nWe  talked  ;  and,  turning  from  the  sore  unrest \n\nOf  an  all-baffling  quest, \nWe  thought  of  holy  lives  that  from  us  passed \n\nHopeful  unto  the  last, \n\nAs  if  they  saw  beyond  the  river  of  death, \n\nLike  him  of  Nazareth, \nThe  many  mansions  of  the  Eternal  days \n\nLift  up  their  gates  of  praise. \n\nAnd,  hushed  to  silence  by  a  reverent  awe, \nMethoua;rit,  O  friend,  I  saw \n\n\n40  WITHIN  THE   GATE. \n\nIn    thy   true    life    of    word,   and    work,   and \n\nthought \nThe  proof  of  all  we  sought. \n\nDid  we  not  witness  in  the  life  of  thee \n\nImmortal  prophecy  ? \n\nAnd  feel,  when  with  thee,  that  thy  footsteps \ntrod \n\nAn  everlasting  road? \n\nNot  for  brief  days  thy  generous  sympathies, \n\nThy  scorn  of  selfish  ease ; \nNot  for  the  poor  prize  of  an  earthly  goal \n\nThy  strong  uplift  of  soul. \n\nThan  thine  was  never  turned  a  fonder  heart \n\nTo  nature  and  to  art \nIn  fair-formed  Hellas  in  her  golden  prime, \n\nThy  Philothea's  time. \n\n\nWITHIN  THE   GATE.  41 \n\nYet,  loving  beauty,  tliou  couldst  pass  it  by, \n\nAnd  for  the  poor  deny \nThyself,  and  see  thy  fresh,  sweet  flower  of  fame \n\nWither  in  blight  and  blame. \n\nSharing  His  love  who  holds  in  His  embrace \n\nThe  lowliest  of  our  race, \nSure  the  Divine  economy  must  be \n\nConservative  of  thee ! \n\nFor  truth  must  live  with  truth,  self-sacrifice \n\nSeek  out  its  great  allies ; \nGood  must  find  good  by  gravitation  sure, \n\nAnd  love  with  love  endure. \n\nAnd  so,  since  tliou  hast  passed  within  the  gate \n\nWhereby  awhile  I  wait, \nI  give  blind  grief  and  blinder  sense  the  lie : \n\nThou  hast  not  lived  to  die  ! \n\n\nTHE   KHAN'S   DEVIL. \n\nTHE  Khan  carne  from  Bokhara  town \nTo  Hamza,  santon  of  renown. \n\n\"  My  head  is  sick,  my  hands  are  weak ; \nThy  help,  O  holy  man,  I  seek.\" \n\nIn  silence  marking  for  a  space \n\nThe  Khan's  red  eyes  and  purple  face, \n\nThick  voice,  and  loose,  uncertain  tread, \n\"  Thou  hast  a  devil ! \"  Hamza  said. \n\n\"  Allah  forbid  !  \"   exclaimed  the  Khan. \n\"  Rid  me  of  him  at  once,  O  man !  \" \n\n\nTHE  KHAN'S  DEVIL.  43 \n\n\"  Nay,\"  Hamza  said,  \"  no  spell  of  mine \nCan  slay  that  cursed  thing  of  thine. \n\n\"  Leave  feast  and  wine,  go  forth  and  drink \nWater  of  healing  on  the  brink \n\n\"  Where  clear  and  cold  from  mountain  snows, \nThe  Nahr  el  Zeben  downward  flows. \n\n\"  Six  moons  remain,  then  come  to  me  ; \nMay  Allah's  pity  go  with  thee  !  \" \n\nA  we- struck,  from  feast  and  wine,  the  Khan \nWent  forth  where  Nahr  el  Zeben  ran. \n\nRoots  were  his  food,  the  desert  dust \nHis  bed,  the  water  quenched  his  thirst, \n\nAnd  when  the  sixth  moon's  scimetar \nCurved  sharp  above  the  evening  star, \n\n\n44  THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL. \n\nPie  sought  again  the  santon's  door, \nNot  weak  and  trembling  as  before, \n\nBut  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  brain ; \n\"Behold,\"  he  said,  \"  the  fiend  is  slain.\" \n\n\"Nay,\"    Hamza     answered,    \"starved    and \n\ndrowned, \nThe  curst  one  lies  in  death-like  s wound. \n\n\"  But  evil  breaks  the  strongest  gyves, \nAnd  jins  like  him  have  charmed  lives. \n\n\"  One  beaker  of  the  juice  of  grape \nMay  call  him  up  in  living  shape. \n\n\"  When  the  red  wine  of  Badakshan \nSparkles  for  thee,  beware,  O  Khan  ! \n\n\"  With  water  quench  the  fire  within, \nAnd  drown  each  day  thy  devilkin !  \" \n\n\nTHE  KHAN'S  DEVIL.  45 \n\nThenceforth  the  great  Khan  shunned  the  cup \nAs  Shitan's  own,  though  offered  up, \n\nWith  laughing  eyes  and  jewelled  hands, \nBy  Yarkand's  maids  and  Samarcand's. \n\nAnd,  in  the  lofty  vestibule \n\nOf  the  medress  of  Kaush  Kodul, \n\nThe  students  of  the  holy  law \nA  golden-lettered  tablet  saw, \n\nWith  these  words,  by  a  cunning  hand, \nGraved  on  it  at  the  Khan's  command: \n\n\"In  Allah's  name,  to  him  who  hath \nA  devil,  Khan  el  Hamed  saith, \n\n\"  Wisely  our  Prophet  cursed  the  vine : \nThe  fiend  that  loves  the  breath  of  wine \n\n\n46  THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL. \n\n\"  No  prayer  can  slay,  no  marabout \nNor  Meccan  dervis  can  drive  out. \n\n\"  I,  Khan  el  Hamed,  know  the  charm \nThat  robs  him  of  his  power  to  harm. \n\n\"  Drown  him,  O  Islam's  child !  the  spell \nTo  save  thee  lies  in  tank  and  well !  \" \n\n\nABRAM  MORRISON. \n\n'MiDST  the  men  and  tilings  which  will \nHaunt  an  old  man's  memory  still, \nDrollest,  quaintest  of  them  all, \nWith  a  boy's  laugh  I  recall \n\nGood  old  Abram  Morrison. \n\nWhen  the  Grist  and  Rolling  Mill \nGround  and  rumbled  by  Po  Hill, \nAnd  the  old  red  school-house  stood \nMidway  in  the  POWOAV'S  flood, \n\nHere  dwelt  Abram  Morrison. \n\nFrom  the  Beach  to  far  beyond \nBear-Hill,  Lion's  Mouth  and  Pond, \n\n\n48  ABEAM  MORRISON. \n\nMarvellous  to  our  tough  old  stock, \nChips  o'  the  Anglo-Saxon  block, \nSeemed  the  Celtic  Morrison. \n\nMudknock,  Balmawhistle,  all \nOnly  knew  the  Yankee  drawl, \nNever  brogue  was  heard  till  when, \nForemost  of  his  countrymen, \n\nHither  came  Friend  Morrison; \n\nYankee  born,  of  alien  blood, \nKin  of  his  had  well  withstood \nPope  and  King  with  pike  and  ball \nUnder  Berry's  leaguered  Avail, \n\nAs  became  the  Morrisons. \n\nWandering  down  from  Nutfield  woods \nWith  his  household  and  his  goods, \nNever  was  it  clearly  told \nHow  within  our  quiet  fold \n\nCame  to  be  a  Morrison. \n\n\nABEAM  MORRISON.  49 \n\nOnce  a  soldier,  blame  him  not \nThat  the  Quaker  lie  forgot, \nWhen,  to  think  of  battles  won, \nAnd  the  red-coats  on  the  run, \n\nLaughed  aloud  Friend  Morrison. \n\nFrom  gray  Lewis  over  sea \nBore  his  sires  their  family  tree, \nOn  the  rugged  boughs  of  it \nGrafting  Irish  mirth  and  wit, \n\nAnd  the  brogue  of  Morrison. \n\nHalf  a  genius,  quick  to  plan, \nBlundering  like  an  Irishman, \nBut  with  canny  shrewdness  lent \nBy  his  far-off  Scotch  descent, \n\nSuch  was  Abram  Morrison. \n\nBack  and  forth  to  daily  meals, \nRode  his  cherished  pig  on  wheels, \n\n4 \n\n\n50  ABRAM  MORRISON. \n\nAnd  to  all  who  came  to  see: \n\"Aisier  for  the  pig  an'  me, \n\nSure  it  is,\"  said  Morrison. \n\nSimple-hearted,  boy  o'er-grown, \nWith  a  humor  quite  his  own, \nOf  our  sober-stepping  ways, \nSpeech  and  look  and  cautious  phrase, \nSlow  to  learn  was  Morrison. \n\nMuch  we  loved  his  stories  told \nOf  a  country  strange  and  old, \nWhere  the  fairies  danced  till  dawn, \nAnd  the  goblin  Leprecaun \n\nLooked,  we  thought,  like  Morrison. \n\nOr  wild  tales  of  feud  and  fight, \nWitch  and  troll  and  second  sight \nWhispered  still  where  Stornoway \nLooks  across  its  stormy  bay, \n\nOnce  the  home  of  Morrisons. \n\n\nABEAM  MORRISON.  51 \n\nFirst  was  he  to  sing  the  praise \nOf  the  Powow's  winding  ways  ; \nAnd  our  straggling  village  took \nCity  grandeur  to  the  look \n\nOf  its  poet  Morrison. \n\nAll  his  words  have  perished.     Shame \nOn  the  saddle-bags  of  Fame, \nThat  they  bring  not  to  our  time \nOne  poor  couplet  of  the  rhyme \n\nMade  by  Abram  Morrison  ! \n\nWhen,  on  calm  and  fair  First  Days, \nRattled  down  our  one-horse  chaise \nThrough  the  blossomed  apple-boughs \nTo  the  old,  brown  meeting-house, \nThere  was  Abram  Morrison. \n\nUnderneath  his  hat's  broad  brim \nPeered  the  queer  old  face  of  him ; \n\n\n52  ABRAM  MORRISON. \n\nAnd  with  Irish  jauntiness \nSwung  the  coat-tails  of  the  dress \nWorn  by  Abram  Morrison. \n\nStill,  in  memory,  on  his  feet, \nLeaning  o'er  the  elders1  seat, \nMingling  with  a  solemn  drone, \nCeltic  accents  all  his  own, \n\nRises  Abram  Morrison. \n\n\"  Don't,\"  he  's  pleading,  \"  don't  ye  go, \nDear  young  friends,  to  sight  and  show ; \nDon't  run  after  elephants, \nLearned  pigs  and  presidents \n\nAnd  the  likes  !  \"  said  Morrison. \n\nOn  his  well-worn  theme  intent, \nSimple,  child-like,  innocent, \nHeaven  forgive  the  half -checked  smile \nOf  our  careless  boyhood,  while \n\nListening  to  Friend  Morrison  ! \n\n\nABRA M  MORRISON.  53 \n\nWe  have  learned  in  later  days \nTruth,  may  speak  in  simplest  phrase; \nThat  the  man  is  not  the  less \nFor  quaint  ways  and  home- spun  dress, \nThanks  to  Abram  Morrison  ! \n\nNot  to  pander  nor  to  please \nCome  the  needed  homilies, \nWith  no  lofty  argument \nIs  the  fitting  message  sent \n\nO  O \n\nThrough  such  lips  as  Morrison's. \n\nDead  and  gone  !     But  while  its  track \nPowow  keeps  to  Merrimack, \nWhile  Po  Hill  is  still  on  guard, \nLooking  land  and  ocean  ward, \n\nThey  shall  tell  of  Morrison  ! \n\nAfter  half  a  century's  lapse, \nWe  are  wiser  now,  perhaps, \n\n\n54  ABEAM  MORRISON. \n\nBut  we  miss  our  streets  amid \nSomething  which  the  past  has  hid, \nLost  with  Abram  Morrison. \n\nGone  forever  with  the  queer \nCharacters  of  that  old  year ! \nNow  the  many  are  as  one ; \nBroken  is  the  mould  that  run \n\nMen  like  Abram  Morrison. \n\n\nVOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.4 \n\nA  SHALLOW  stream,  from  fountains \nDeep  in  the  Sandwich  mountains, \n\nRan  lake  ward  Bearcamp  River ; \nAnd,  between  its  flood-torn  shores, \nSped  by  sail  or  urged  by  oars \n\nNo  keel  had  vexed  it  ever. \n\nAlone  the  dead  trees  yielding \n\nTo  the  dull  axe  Time  is  wielding, \n\nThe  shy  mink  and  the   otter, \nAnd  golden  leaves  and  red, \nBy  countless  autumns  shed, \n\nHad  floated  down  its  water. \n\n4  See  Note. \n\n\n56  VOYAGE   OF  THE  JETTIE. \n\nFrom  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, \nCame  a  skilled  sea-faring  man, \n\nWith  his  dory,  to  the  right  place; \nOver  hill  and  plain  he  brought  her, \nWhere  the  boatless  Bearcamp  water \n\nComes  winding  down  from  White-Face. \n\n\no \n\n\nQuoth  the  skipper :  \"  Ere  she  floats  forth, \nI  'm  sure  my  pretty  boat  's  worth \n\nAt  least,  a  name  as  pretty.\" \nOn  her  painted  side  he  wrote  it, \nAnd  the  flag  that  o'er  her  floated \n\nBore  aloft  the  name  of  Jettie. \n\nOn  a  radiant  morn  of  summer, \nElder  guest  and  latest  comer \n\nSaw  her  wed  the  Bearcamp  water ; \nHeard  the  name  the  skipper  gave  her, \nAnd  the  answer  to   the  favor \n\nFrom  the  Bay  State's  graceful  daughter. \n\n\nVOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.  57 \n\nThen,  a   singer,  richly  gifted, \nHer  charmed  voice  uplifted ; \n\nAnd  the  wood-thrush  and  song-sparrow, \nListened,  dumb  with  envious  pain, \nTo  the  clear  and  sweet  refrain \n\nWhose  notes  they  could  not  borrow. \n\nThen  the  skipper  plied  his  oar, \nAnd  from  off  the  shelving  shore, \n\nGlided  out  the  strange  explorer ; \nFloating  on,  she  knew   not  whither,  — \nThe  tawny  sands  beneath  her, \n\nThe  great  hills  watching  o'er  her. \n\nOn,  where  the  stream  flows  quiet \nAs  the  meadows  margins  by  it, \n\nOr  widens  out  to  borrow  a \nNew  life  from   that  wild  water, \nThe  mountain   giant's  daughter, \n\nThe  pine-besung  Chocorua. \n\n\n58  VOYAGE   OF  THE  JETTIE. \n\nOr,  mid  the  tangling   cumber \nAnd  pack  of  mountain  lumber \n\nThat   spring  floods  downward  force, \nOver  sunken  snag,  and  bar \nWhere  the  grating  shallows  are, \n\nThe  good  boat  held  her  course. \n\nUnder  the  pine-dark  highlands, \nAround  the  vine-hung  islands, \n\nShe  ploughed  her  crooked  furrow; \nAnd  her  rippling  and  her  lurches \nScared  the  river  eels  and  perches, \n\nAnd  the  musk-rat  in  his  burrow. \n\nEvery  sober  clam  below  her, \nEvery  sage  and  grave  pearl-grower, \n\nShut  his  rusty  valves  the  tighter; \nCrow  called  to  crow  complaining, \nAnd  old  tortoises  sat  craning \n\nTheir  leathern  necks  to  sight  her. \n\n\nVOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.  59 \n\nSo,  to  where  the  still  lake  glasses \nThe  misty  mountain  masses \n\nRising  dim  and  distant  northward, \nAnd,  with  faint-drawn  shadow  pictures, \nLow  shores,  and  dead  pine  spectres, \n\nBlends  the  skyward  and  the  earthward, \n\nOn  she  glided,  overladen, \nWith  merry  man  and  maiden \n\nSending  back  their  song  and  laughter,  — \nWhile,  perchance,  a  phantom  crew, \nIn  a  ghostly  birch  canoe, \n\nPaddled  dumb  and  swiftly  after  ! \n\nAnd  the  bear  on  Ossipee \nClimbed  the  topmost  crag  to  see \n\nThe  strange  thing  drifting  under  ; \nAnd,  through  the  haze  of  August, \nPassaconaway  and  Paugus \n\nLooked  down  in  sleepy  wonder. \n\n\n60  VOYAGE  OF  THE  JET  TIE. \n\nAll  the  pines  that  o'er  her  hung \nIn  mimic  sea-tones  sung \n\nThe  song  familiar  to  her ; \nAnd  the  maples  leaned  to  screen  her, \nAnd  the  meadow-grass  seemed  greener, \n\nAnd  the  breeze  more  soft  to  woo  her. \n\nThe  lone  stream  mystery-haunted, \nTo  her  the  freedom  granted \n\nTo  scan  its  every  feature, \nTill  new  and  old  were  blended, \nAnd  round  them  both  extended \n\nThe  loving  arms  of  Nature. \n\nOf  these  hills  the  little  vessel \nHenceforth  is  part  and  parcel ; \n\nAnd  on  Bearcamp  shall  her  log \nBe  kept,  as  if  by  George's \nOr  Grand  Menan,  the  surges \n\nTossed  her  skipper  through  the  fog. \n\n\nVOYAGE   OF  THE  JET  TIE.  61 \n\nAnd  I,  who,  half  in  sadness, \nRecall  the  morning  gladness \n\nOf  life,  at  evening  time, \nBy  chance,  onlooking  idly, \nApart  from  all  so  widely, \n\nHave  set  her  voyage  to  rhyme. \n\nDies  now  the  gay  persistence \nOf  song  and  laugh,  in  distance  ; \n\nAlone  with  me  remaining \nThe  stream,  the  quiet  meadow, \nThe  hills  in  shine  and  shadow, \n\nThe  sombre  pines  complaining. \n\nAnd,  musing  here,  I  dream \nOf  voyagers  on  a   stream \n\nFrom  whence  is  no  returning, \nUnder  sealed  orders  going, \nLooking  forward  little  knowing, \n\nLooking  back  with  idle  yearning. \n\n\n62  VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE. \n\nAnd  I  pray  that  every  venture \nThe  port  of  peace  may  enter, \n\nThat,  safe  from  snag  and  fall \nAnd  siren-haunted  islet, \nAnd  rock,  the  Unseen  Pilot \n\nMay  guide  us  one  and  all. \n\n\nOUR  AUTOCRAT. \nREAD  AT  DR.  HOLMES'  BREAKFAST. \n\nHis  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay, \nRomance,  art,  science,  rich  in  all, \n\nAnd  young  of  heart,  how  dare  we  say \nWe  keep  his  seventieth  festival  ? \n\nNo  sense  is  here  of  loss  or  lack  ; \n\nBefore  his  sweetness  and  his  light \nThe  dial  holds  its  shadow  back, \n\nThe  charmM  hours  delay  their  flight. \n\nHis  still  the  keen  analysis \n\nOf  men  and  moods,  electric  wit, \n\nFree  play  of  mirth,  and  tenderness \nTo  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. \n\n\n64  OUR  AUTOCRAT. \n\nAnd  his  the  pathos  touching  all \nLife's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, \n\nIts  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call \nAnd  rest  beneath  the  violets. \n\nHis  sparkling  surface  scarce   betrays \n\nThe  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, — \n\nThe  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, \nAnd  tender  memories  of  the  old. \n\nWhat  shapes  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay, \nBefore  us  at  his  bidding  come  ! \n\nThe  Treadmill  tramp,  the  One-Horse  Shay, \nThe  dumb  despair  of  Elsie's  doom  ! \n\nThe  tale  of  Avis  and  the  Maid, \n\nThe  plea  for  lips  that  cannot  speak, \n\nThe  -holy  kiss  that  Iris  laid \n\nOn  Little  Boston's  pallid  cheek! \n\n\nOUR  AUTOCRAT.  65 \n\nLong  may  lie  live  to  sing  for  us \nHis  sweetest  songs  at  evening   time, \n\nAnd,  like  his  Chambered  Nautilus, \nTo  holier  heights  of  beauty  climb  ! \n\nThough  now  unnumbered  guests  surround \nThe  table  that  he  rules  at  will, \n\nIts  Autocrat,  however  crowned, \n\nIs  but  our  friend  and  comrade   still. \n\nThe  world  may  keep  his  honored  name, \nThe  wealth  of  all  his  varied  powers  ; \n\nA  stronger  claim  has  love  than  fame, \nAnd  he  himself  is  only  ours  ! \n5 \n\n\nGARRISON. \n\nTHE  storm  and  peril  overpast, \n\nThe  hounding  hatred  shamed  and  still, \n\nGo,  soul  of  freedom  !    take  at  last \n\nThe  place  which  thou  alone   canst  fill. \n\nConfirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — \nLife  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they \n\n\"Who  lose  it  in  His  service  hold \nThe  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. \n\nNot  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave \n\nThy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world  ; \n\nNo  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave \n\nThe    strength    wherewith    thy   bolts    were \nhurled. \n\n\nGARRISON.  67 \n\nFrom  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew \nWe  heard  a  tender  undersong ; \n\nThy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, \n\nFrom  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. \n\nNow  past  and  present  are  as  one; \n\nThe  life  below  is  life  above ; \nThy  mortal  years  have  but  begun \n\nThe  immortality  of   love. \n\nWith  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith \nWe  lay  thy  outworn  garment  by, \n\nGive  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, \nAnd  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! \n\nNot  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm \nOf  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense  ; \n\nBut  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, \nIts  own  exceeding  recompense. \n\n\n68  GARRISON. \n\nGo  up  and  on !  thy  day  well  done, \nIts  morning  promise  well  fulfilled, \n\nArise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, \n\nTo  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. \n\nGo,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars \nThe  work  below  of  man  for  man ; \n\nWith  the  white  legions  of  the  stars \nDo  service  such  as  angels  can. \n\nWherever  wrong  shall  right  deny \nOr  suffering  spirits  urge  their  plea, \n\nBe  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, \nA  hand  to  set  the  captive  free  ! \n\n\nBAYARD  TAYLOR. \n\n1. \n\"AND  where  now,  Bayard,  will  thy  footsteps \n\ntend?\" \n\nMy  sister  asked  our  guest  one  winter's  day. \nSmiling  he  answered  in  the  Friends'  sweet \n\nway \nCommon    to    both  :    \"  Wherever    thou    shalt \n\nsend ! \nWhat  wouldst  thou  have  me  see  for  thee  ?  \" \n\nShe  laughed, \nHer    dark    eyes    dancing   in   the  wood-fire's \n\nglow : \n\n\"  Loffoden  isles,  the  Kilpis,  and  the  low, \nUnsetting  sun  on  Finmark's  fishing-craft.\" \n\n\n70  BAYARD   TAYLOR. \n\n\"  All    these   and   more   I   soon   shall   see  for \n\nthee !  \" \nHe   answered    cheerily :    and    he    kept   his \n\npledge \nOn  Lapland  snows,  the  North  Cape's  windy \n\nwedge, \nAnd  Tromso  freezing  in  its  winter  sea. \n\nHe  went    and   came.     But   no   man  knows \n\nthe  track \nOf  his  last  journey,  and  he  comes  not  back  ! \n\n2. \n\nHe  brought  us  wonders  of  the  new  and  old ; \nWe  shared  all  climes  with  him.     The  Arab's \n\ntent \n\nTo  him  its  story-telling  secret  lent. \nAnd,  pleased,  we  listened  to  the  tales  he  told. \nHis  task,  beguiled  with  songs  that  shall  endure, \nIn  manly,  honest  thoroughness  he  wrought ; \nFrom  humble  home-lays  to  the   heights    of \nthought \n\n\nBAYARD  TAYLOR.  71 \n\nSlowly  lie  climbed,  but  every  step  was  sure. \nHow,  with  the  generous  pride  that  friendship \n\nhath, \nWe,  who    so    loved    him,    saw  at    last    the \n\ncrown \n\nOf  civic  honor  on  his  brows  pressed  down, \nRejoiced,   and    knew   not    that    the  gift  was \n\ndeath. \nAnd  now  for  him,  whose  praise  in  deafened \n\nears \n\nTwo   nations   speak,    we   answer    but   with \ntears  ! \n\n3. \n\nO  Vale  of  Chester  !   trod  by  him  so  oft, \nGreen  as  thy  June   turf   keep  his  memory. \n\nLet \nNor  wood,  nor  dell,  nor  storied  stream  for- \n\n.      get, \nNor  winds  that  blow7  round  lonely  Cedarcroft ; \n\n\n72  BAYARD   TAYLOR. \n\nLet  the  home  voices  greet  him  in  the  far, \nStrange  land  that  holds  him;  let  the  mes \nsages \n\nOf  love  pursue  him  o'er  the  chartless  seas \nAnd  unmapped  vastness  of  his  unknown  star ! \nLove's  language,  heard   beyond   the  loud   dis \ncourse \n\nOf  perishable  fame,  in  every  sphere \nItself  interprets;  and  its  utterance  here \nSomewhere  in  God's  unfolding  universe \n\nShall  reach  our  traveller,  softening  the  sur \nprise \nOf  his  rapt  gaze  on  unfamiliar  skies ! \n\n\nA   NAME. \n\nTO    G.    W.    P. \n\nTHE  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore, \nSt.  Malo  !  from  tliy  ancient  mart, \n\nBecame  upon  our  Western  shore \nGreenleaf  for  Feuillevert. \n\nA  name  to  hear  in  soft  accord \nOf  leaves  by  light  winds   overrun, \n\nOr  read,  upon  the  greening  sward \nOf  May,  in  shade  and  sun. \n\nThe  name  my  infant  ear  first  heard \nBreathed  softly  with  a  mother's  kiss ; \n\nHis  mother's  own,  no  tenderer  word \nMy  father  spake  than  this. \n\n\n74  A  NAME. \n\nI \n\nNo  child  have  I  to  bear  it  on ; \n\nBe  thou  its  keeper;   let  it  take \nFrom  gifts  well  used  and  duty  done \nNew  beauty  for  thy  sake. \n\nThe  fair  ideals  that  outran \n\nMy  halting  footsteps  seek  and  find  — \nThe  flawless  symmetry  of  man, \n\nThe  poise  of  heart  and  mind. \n\nStand  firmly  where  I  felt  the  sway \nOf  every  wing  that  fancy  flew, \n\nSee  clearly  where  I  groped  my  way, \nNor  real  from  seeming  knew. \n\nAnd  wisely  choose,  and  bravely  hold \nThy  faith  unswerved  by  cross  or  crown. \n\nLike  the  stout  Huguenot  of  old \nWhose  name  to  thee  comes  down. \n\n\nA  NAME.  75 \n\nAs  Marot's  songs  made  glad  the  heart \nOf  that  lone  exile,  haply  mine \n\nMay  in  life's  heavy  hours  impart \nSome  strength  and  hope  to  thine. \n\nYet  when  did  Age  transfer  to  Youth \nThe  hard-gained  lessons  of  its  day? \n\nEach  lip  must  learn  the  taste  of  truth, \nEach  foot  must  feel  its  way. \n\nWe  cannot  hold  the  Lands  of  choice \nThat  touch  or  shun  life's  fateful  keys  ; \n\nThe  whisper  of  the  inward  voice \nIs  more  than  homilies. \n\nDear  boy  !  for  whom  the  flowers  are  born, \nStars  shine,  and  happy  song-birds  sing, \n\nWhat  can  my  evening  give  to  morn, \nMy  winter  to  thy  spring! \n\n\n76  A  NAME. \n\nA  life  not  void  of  pure  intent, \n\nWith  small  desert  of  praise  or  blame, \n\nThe  love  I  felt,  the  good  I  meant, \nI  leave  thee  with  my  name. \n\n\nTHE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. \n\nIN  the  minister's  morning  sermon \nHe  bad  told  of  the  primal  fall, \n\nAnd  how  thenceforth  the  wrath  of  God \nRested  on  each  and  all. \n\nAnd  how,  of  His  will  and  pleasure, \nAll  souls,  save  a  chosen  few, \n\nWere  doomed  to  the  quenchless  burning, \nAnd  held  in  the  way  thereto. \n\nYet  never  by  faith's  unreason \n\nA  saintlier  soul  was  tried, \nAnd  never  the  harsh  old  lesson \n\nA  tenderer  heart  belied. \n\n\n78  THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. \n\nAnd,  after  the  painful  service \nOn  that  pleasant  Sabbath  day, \n\nHe  walked  with  his  little  daughter \nThrough  the  apple-bloom  of  May. \n\nSweet  in  the  fresh  green  meadows \nSparrow  and  blackbird  sung; \n\nAbove  him  their  tinted  petals \nThe  blossoming  orchards  hung. \n\nAround  on  the  wonderful  glory \nThe  minister  looked  and  smiled; \n\n\"How  good  is  the  Lord  who  gives  us \nThese  gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child \n\n\"  Behold  in  the  bloom  of  apples \nAnd  the  violets  in  the  sward \n\nA  hint  of  the  old,  lost  beauty \nOf  the  Garden  of  the  Lord  I  \" \n\n\nTHE  MINISTERS  DAUGHTER.  79 \n\nThen  up  spake  the  little  maiden, \nTreading  on  snow  and  pink : \n\n44  O  father !  these  pretty  blossoms \nAre  very  wicked,  I  think. \n\n\"Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden \nThere  never  had  been  a  fall; \n\nAnd  if  never  a  tree  had  blossomed \nGod  would  have  loved  us  all.\" \n\n\"  Hush,  child !  \"  the  father  answered, \n\n\"  By  His  decree  man  fell ; \nHis  ways  are  in  clouds  and  darkness, \n\nBut  He  doetli  all  things  well. \n\n\"And  whether  by  His  ordaining \n\nTo  us  cometh.  good  or  ill, \nJoy  or  pain,  or  light  or  shadow, \n\nWe  must  fear  and  love  Him  still.\" \n\n\n80  THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. \n\n\"  Ob,  I  fear  Him !  \"  said  the  daughter, \n\"And  I  try  to  love  Him,  too; \n\nBut  I  wish  He  was  good  and  gentle, \nKind  and  loving  as  you.\" \n\nThe  minister  groaned  in  spirit \nAs  the  tremulous  lips  of  pain \n\nAnd  wide,  wet  eyes  uplifted \nQuestioned  his  own  in  vain. \n\nBowing  his  head  he  pondered \nThe  words  of  the  little  one; \n\nHad  he  erred  in  his  life-long  teaching? \nHad  he  wrong  to  his  Master  done  ? \n\nTo  what  grim  and  dreadful  idol \nHad  he  lent  the  holiest  name? \n\nDid  his  own  heart,  loving  and  human, \nThe  God  of  his  worship  shame? \n\n\nTHE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER.  81 \n\nAnd  lo !  from  the  bloom  and  greenness, \n\nFrom  the  tender  skies  above, \nAnd  the  face  of  his  little  daughter, \n\nHe  read  a  lesson  of  love. \n\nNo  more  as  the  cloudy  terror \n\nOf  Sinai's  mount  of  law, \nBut  as  Christ  in  the  Syrian  lilies \n\nThe  vision  of  God  he  saw. \n\nAnd,  as  when,  in  the  clefts  of  Horeb, \nOf  old  was  His  presence  known, \n\nThe  dread  Ineffable  Glory \nWas  Infinite-  Goodness  alone. \n\nThereafter  his  hearers  noted \n\nIn  his  prayers  a  tenderer  strain, \n\nAnd  never  the  gospel  of  hatred \nBurned  on  his  lips  again. \n\n6 \n\n\n82  THE  MINISTERS  DAUGHTER. \n\nAnd  the  scoffing  tongue  was  prayerful, \nAnd  the  blinded  eyes  found  sight, \n\nAnd  hearts,  as  flint  aforetime, \n\nGrew  soft  in  his  warmth  and  light. \n\n\nMY  TRUST. \n\nA  PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me  : \nI  look  across  the  years  and  see \nMyself  beside  my  mother's  knee. \n\nI  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain \n\nMy  selfish  moods,  and  know  again \n\nA  child's  blind  sense  of  wrong  and  pain. \n\nBut  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown, \nMy  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, \nMy  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. \n\nGray  grown,  but  in  our  Father's  sight \nA  child  still  groping  for  the  light \nTo  read  His  works  and  ways  aright. \n\n\n84  MY  TRUST. \n\nI  wait,  in  His  good  time  to  see \nThat  as  my  mother  dealt  with  me \nSo  with  His  children  dealeth  He. \n\nI  bow  myself  beneath  His  hand: \nThat  pain  itself  was  wisely  planned \nI  feel,  and  partly  understand. \n\nThe  joy  that  conies  in  sorrow's  guise, \nThe  sweet  pains  of  self-sacrifice, \nI  would  not  have  them  otherwise. \n\nAnd  what  were  life  and  death  if  sin \nKnew  not  the  dread  rebuke  within, \nThe  pang  of  merciful  discipline? \n\nNot  with  thy  proud  despair  of  old, \nCrowned  stoic  of  Rome's  noblest  mould \nPleasure  and  pain  alike  I  hold. \n\n\nMY  TRUST.  85 \n\nI  suffer  with  no  vain  pretence \nOf  triumph  over  flesh  and  sense, \nYet  trust  the  grievous  providence, \n\nHow  dark  soe'er  it  seems,  may  tend, \nBy  ways  I  cannot  comprehend, \nTo  some  unguessed  benignant  end ; \n\nThat  every  loss  and  lapse  may  gain \nThe  clear-aired  heights  by  steps  of  pain, \nAnd  never  cross  is  borne  in  vain. \n\n\nTHE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. \n\nI  WANDERED  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made \nAgainst  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, \n\nAnd,  guided  by  its  sweet \nPerfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, \nThe  trailing  spring  flower  tinted  like  a  shell \n\nAmid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my  feet. \n\nFrom  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss  the \n\npines \nMoaned    ceaseless    overhead,    the    blossoming \n\nvines \n\nLifted  their  glad  surprise, \nWhile  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in   leafless \n\ntrees \n\nHis  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, \nAnd  snow-drifts  lingered  under  April  skies. \n\n\nTHE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS.  87 \n\nAs,  pausing,  o'er  the  lonely  flower  I  bent, \nI  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged  and  pent, \n\nWhich  yet  find  room, \n\nThrough  care  and  cumber,  coldness  and  decay, \nTo  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day \nAnd   make    the   sad   earth   happier   for   their \nbloom. \n\n\nBY   THEIR  WORKS. \n\nCALL  him  not  heretic  whose  works  attest \nHis  faith  in  goodness  by  no  creed  confessed. \nWhatever  in  love's  name  is  truly  done \nTo  free  the  bound  and  lift  the  fallen  one, \nIs  done  to  Christ.     Whoso  in  deed  and  word \nIs  not  against  Him,  labors  for  our  Lord. \nWhen  He,  who,  sad  and  weary,  longing  sore \nFor   love's   sweet   service,    sought   the  sisters' \n\ndoor, \n\nOne  saw  the  heavenly,  one  the  human  guest, \nBut  who   shall   say  which   loved   the   Master \n\nbest? \n\n\nTHE  WORD. \n\nVOICE  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  making  known \nMan  to  himself,  a  witness  swift  and  sure, \nWarning,    approving,    true    and    wise    and \n\npure, \n\nCounsel  and  guidance  that  misleadeth  none  ! \nBy  thee  the  mystery  of  life  is  read  ; \n\nThe    picture-writing    of    the    world's    gray \n\nseers, \n\nThe  myths  and  parables  of  the  primal  years, \nWhose  letter  kills,  by  thee  interpreted \nTake  healthful  meanings  fitted  to  our  needs, \nAnd  in  the  soul's  vernacular  express \nThe  common  law  of  simple  righteousness. \nHatred  of  cant  and  doubt  of  human  creeds \nMay  well  be  felt :  the  unpardonable  sin \nIs  to  deny  the  Word  of  God  within! \n\n\nTHE  BOOK. \n\nGALLEEY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, \nA  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, \nAnd  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze \n\nThe  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. \n\nAlong  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; \nAnd  the  low  chancel  side-lights  half  acquaint \nThe  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard,  and \nsaint, \n\nTheir  age-dimmed  tablets  traced  in  doubtful \nwrit ! \n\nBut  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure \nFalls  from  above  the  white  supernal  light \nWe  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, \n\nAnd  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, \n\nUntil  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before \n\nThe    One   ineffable   Face,    love,    wonder,  and \nadore. \n\n\nREQUIREMENT. \n\nWE  live  by  Faith ;  but  Faith  is  not  the  slave \nOf    text   and    legend.     Reason's    voice    and \n\nGod's, \nNature's  and  Duty's,  never  are  at  odds. \n\nWhat  asks  our  Father  of  His  children,  save \n\nJustice  and  mercy  and  humility, \nA  reasonable  service  of  good  deeds, \nPure  living,  tenderness  to  human  needs, \n\nReverence   and   trust,  and  prayer  for  light  to \nsee \n\nThe  Master's  footprints  in  our  daily  ways? \nNo  knotted  scourge  nor  sacrificial  knife, \nBut  the  calm  beauty  of  an  ordered  life \n\nWhose  very  breathing  is  umvorded  praise !  — \n\nA  life  that  stands  as  all  true  lives  have  stood, \n\nFirm-rooted  in  the  faith  that  God  is  Good. \n\n\nHELP. \n\nDEEAM  not  O  Soul,  that  easy  is  the  task \nThus  set  before  thee.     If  it  proves  at  length, \nAs  well  it  may,  beyond  thy  natural  strength, \nFaint  not,  despair  not.     As  a  child  may  ask \nA  father,  pray  the  Everlasting  Good \n\nFor   light    and    guidance   midst    the   subtle \n\nsnares \n\nOf  sin  thick  planted  in  life's  thoroughfares, \nFor  spiritual  strength  and  moral  hardihood ; \nStill  listening,  through  the  noise  of  time  and \n\nsense, \n\nTo  the  still  whisper  of  the  Inward  Word ; \nBitter  in  blame,  sweet  in  approval  heard, \nItself  its  own  confirming  evidence : \nTo  health  of  soul  a  voice  to  cheer  and  please, \nTo  guilt  the  wrath  of  the  Eumenides. \n\n\nUTTERANCE. \n\nBUT  what  avail  inadequate  words  to  reach \nThe     innermost     of     Truth?      Who     shall \n\nessay, \nBlinded   and   weak,  to   point   and  lead  the \n\nway, \n\nOr  solve  its  mystery  in  familiar  speech? \nYet,  if  it  be  that  something  not  thy  own, \nSome  shadow  of  the  Thought  to  which  our \n\nschemes, \nCreeds,    cult,  and    ritual    are    at   best    but \n\ndreams, \n\nIs  even  to  thy  unworthiness  made  known, \nThou  mayst  not  hide  what  yet  thou  shouldst \n\nnot  dare \nTo  utter  lightly,  lest  on  lips  of  thine \n\n\n94  UTTERANCE. \n\nThe  real  seem  false,  the  beauty  tmdivine. \nSo,  weighing  duty  in  the  scale  of  prayer, \nGive  what  seems   given   thee.     It  may  prove \n\na  seed \nOf  goodness  dropped  in  fallow-grounds  of  need. \n\n\nINSCRIPTIONS. \n\nON  A   SUN-DIAL. \n\nFOR    DR.    HENRY    I.    BOWDITCH. \n\nWITH    warning    hand   I   mark    Time's   rapid \n\nflight \n\nFrom  life's  glad  morning  to  its  solemn  night ; \nYet,  through  the  dear  God's  love,  I  also  show \nThere  's  Light  above  me  by  the  Shade  below. \n\n\nON  A   FOUNTAIN. \n\nFOR    DOROTHEA    L.    DIX. \n\nSTEANGER  and  traveller \nDrink  freely,  and  bestow \n\nA  kindly  thought  on  her \n\nWho  bade  this  fountain  flow, \n\n\n96  ON  A  FOUNTAIN. \n\nYet  hath  no  other  claim \nThan  as  the  minister \n\nOf  blessing  in  God's  name. \nDrink,  and  in  His  peace  go \n\n\nORIENTAL  MAXIMS. \n\nPARAPHRASE  OF  SANSCRIT  TRANSLATIONS. \n\nTHE  INWARD  JUDGE. \nFROM  \"INSTITUTES  OF  MANU.\" \n\nTHE  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is. \nSay  not  in  evil  doing,  \"  No  one  sees,\" \nAnd  so  offend  the  conscious  One  within, \nWhose  ear  can  hear  the  silences  of  sin \nEre    they  find   voice,  whose    eyes    unsleeping \n\nsee \nThe  secret  motions  of  iniquity. \n\nNor  in  thy  folly  say,   \"  I  am  alone.\" \nFor,  seated  in  thy  heart,  as  on  a  throne, \n\n7 \n\n\n98  LAYING   UP   TREASURE. \n\nThe  ancient  Judge  and  Witness  livetli  still, \nTo  note  thy  act  and  thought;  and  as  thy  ill \nOr   good    goes    from    thee,    far    beyond    thy \n\nreach, \nThe  solemn  Doomsman's  seal  is  set  on  each. \n\n\nLAYING  UP  TREASURE. \n\nFROM    THE   \"  MAHABHARATA.\" \n\nBEFORE  the  Ender  comes,  whose  charioteer \nIs  swift  or  slow  Disease,  lay  up  each  year \nThy  harvests  of  well-doing,  wealth  that  kings \nNor   thieves  can   take   away.      When  all   the \n\nthings \nThou    callest    thine,   goods,  pleasures,    honors \n\nfall, \nThou  in  thy  virtue  shalt  survive  them  all. \n\n\nCONDUCT.  99 \n\nCONDUCT. \n\nFHOM    THE    \"  MAHlBHARATA.\" \n\nHEED  how  thou  lives t.     Do  no  act  by  day \nWhich  from   the  night  shall   drive   thy  peace \n\na,  way. \nIn    months    of    sun    so    live    that    months    of \n\nrain \n\nShall  still  be  happy.  Evermore  restrain \nEvil  and  cherish  good,  so  shall  there  be \nAnother  and  a  happier  life  for  thee. \n\n\nNOTES. \n\n\n1  This  ballad,  originally  written  for  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.'s \nMemorial  History  of  Boston,  describes,  with  pardonable  poetic \nlicense,  a  memorable  incident  in  the  annals  of  the  city.     The \ninterview  between  Shattuck  and  the  Governor  took  place,  I \nhave  since  learned,  in  the  residence  of  the  latter,  and  not  in \nthe  Council  Chamber. \n\n2  This  name  in  some  parts  of  Europe  is  given  to  the  season \nwe  call  Indian  Summer,  in  honor  of  the  good  St.  Martin. \nThe  title  of  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  day \nit  refers  to  was  the  exact  date  of  the  Saint's  birth,  the  llth  of \nNovember. \n\n8  See  Tyler's  Primitive  Culture,  vol.  ii.  pp.  32,  33.  Also \nJournal  of  Asiatic  Society,  vol.  iv.  p.  795. \n\n4  The  picturesquely  situated  Wayside  Inn  at  West  Ossipee, \nN.  H.,  is  now  in  ashes;  and  to  its  former  guests  these  some \nwhat  careless  rhymes  may  be  a  not  unwelcome  reminder  of \npleasant  summers  and  autumns  on  the  banks  of  the  Bearcamp \nand  Chocorua.  To  the  author  himself  they  have  a  special  in \nterest  from  the  fact  that  they  were  written,  or  improvised, \nunder  the  eye,  and  for  the  amusement  of  a  beloved  invalid \nfriend  whose  last  earthly  sunsets  faded  from  the  mountain \nranges  of  Ossipee  and  Sandwich. \n\n\nUJ \n\n\nQo \n\nZ.Q \n\n\nto \n\n\nt \n\n\n00 \n\n\nCM \n\n\nQ  JJ! \n\nSj   UJ \n\nO  X \n\n\n0 \n\n\n£     >-  «o \n\n\n|    I    y \n\n§   II \n\n3  !* \n\n\n§ \n\n\n„  s- \n\n•5    E \n\n\nA \nR \n\n\no \n\n\noo \nO \n\nIU \n\n\nUJ \n\n\ngr> \n\n\nC3 \n\nUJ \nQ \n\n\ntA \n\n\nGENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY \n\n\nB000313323 \n\n\n","title":"The King's Missive, and Other Poems","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:34.691367Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:the-king-s-missive-and-other-poems","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:the-king-s-missive-and-other-poems","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item kingsmissive00whitrich","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:34.994354Z","version":1}]}