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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
MOSSES, 
 
 UNDER THE PINE, 
 
 SEAWEED, 
 
 TALES AT THE MANSE. 
 
 A revised collection 
 of the poems of 
 
 MARCUS FAYETTE BRIDGMAN. 
 
 
 x c 
 
 LONDON, 
 BOSTON & NEW YORK. 
 
 Supplied by the Trade. 
 
 V , 
 
 \ 
 
Q 
 
 Copyright, 1891, by M. F. BrIdgman. 
 
 Geo. A. Warren, Printer, Boston, Mass. 
 
4 
 
 ■\ 
 
 To F. S. C. 
 
 i look across the years 
 
 which separate us, 
 
 and October sends a greeting to June. 
 
Of the poems originally printed in the volumes entitled " Mosses " and 
 "Under the Pine," seventeen have been retained in the present collection, but not 
 essentially changed in the revision. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Mosses. 
 First Poems. 
 
 After the Summer .... 
 Under the Willow ..... 
 
 Drift 
 
 The Night- Wind 
 
 In the Lap of Earth .... 
 On Looking at the Portrait of Bums 
 One Eve ...... 
 
 Under the Pine. 
 The Likeness on the Wall 
 
 A Mill-Idyl 
 
 Inside the Gate ..... 
 
 Low-Tide ...... 
 
 Seaward ...... 
 
 PAGE 
 II 
 
 13 
 16 
 18 
 19 
 
 22 
 25 
 
 29 
 
 33 
 36 
 
 38 
 40 
 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 Nepenthe .......... 42 
 
 Agnes .......... 44 
 
 The Church by the Green ....... 48 
 
 The Last Request ........ 49 
 
 A Revery . . . . . . . . . . 52 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 A Gleam of Memory ....... 55 
 
 The Sexton . . . . . . . . . . 57 
 
 The SouPs Eclipse ........ 61 
 
 The Reconciliation . . . . . . . . 6$ 
 
 The Two Travellers . . . . . . . 65 
 
 The Man of Books . . . . . . . . 67 
 
 To Death's Messenger . . . . . . . 69 
 
 As He Leaned Over His Awl . . . . . . 70 
 
 After the Wreck ........ 72 
 
 At the Burial ......... 74 
 
 The Two Ways ........ 76 
 
 At the Manse. 
 
 Preamble .......... 79 
 
 Tale I. Mary Lane ....... 80 
 
 Tale II. Hester Heyne . . . . . . . 86 
 
 Tale III. The Miller's Daughter 92 
 
 Tale IV. The Micsician and His Daughter . . . 99 
 
I. 
 
 MOSSES. 
 First Poems. 
 
Yet the amaranth 
 
 Above the rank soil blows, 
 
 Yet is the sunshine warm 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the cypress tree, 
 
 And yet beside the nightshade blooms the rose. 
 
AFTER THE SUMMER. 
 
 This afternoon the autumn winds are silent, 
 Which crept so chill along the slope at morning, 
 And looks to-day so bare the lonely orchard. 
 
 At length has come the dreamy, sere October : 
 The daylight sleeps upon the noiseless upland, 
 And soft the haze that fills the voiceless valley. 
 
 A mile away, the river burns and glistens, 
 Through yonder willow gleams the distant village : 
 A shaft of fire above it flames the church-spire. 
 
 The woodbine listless droops about the window : 
 Nor stirs the maple by the quiet doorway, 
 And sheer against the sky leans the still locust. 
 
i2 Mosses. PoemI - 
 
 After the Summer. 
 
 As in my room I sit with busy fancy, 
 
 And thinking of the vanished days of summer, 
 
 Sings Zilla at her task a plaintive ballad : 
 
 The landscape no longer is smiling, 
 The leaves in the woodland are sere ; 
 
 The note of the robin is husht, 
 And pale is the wane of the year. 
 
 The lily blows not in the meadow, 
 
 The roses of summer are dead; 
 The sparrows and kinglets have come, 
 
 But the thrush and the swallow have fled. 
 
 But the thrush will come back and the swallow, 
 When the sun shall have melted the snows, 
 
 To the meadow the lily return, 
 At length, to the cottage the rose. 
 
 Yet the Spring to man's life twice comes not, 
 
 Not twice to its landscape its flush; 
 Blooms the rose or the lily but once, 
 
 But once come the swallow and thrush ! 
 
 Warm is the sunshine on the honeysuckle, 
 Beyond I catch the sight of sombre hemlocks, 
 And far-off glimpses of the dusty highway. 
 
 Below the vacant garden gleams the sumac, 
 White on the hillside are the leafless birches, 
 And wood and field proclaim the pensive autumn. 
 
UNDER THE WILLOW. 
 
 A rustic fence upon the slope, 
 
 Not far beyond the orchard trees, 
 
 Surrounds a plot of freshest sward, 
 
 A hillock mark'd by two white stones. 
 
 On the rich soil the clover blooms, 
 
 So green is there the eglantine, 
 
 A willow by a headstone droops, 
 
 And moss half hides the simple name. 
 
 In Elmer's field the mowers swing 
 
 Their scythes below in rhythmic time, 
 
 And through the orchard comes the talk 
 Of laborers in the curling corn. 
 
14 
 
 Mosses. 
 
 Poem II. 
 
 Under the 
 
 Willow. 
 
 Leans one against the fence hard by 
 
 The peaceful spot and headstone pale, 
 
 As gently stirs the summer breeze 
 
 The willow-tree and eglantine. 
 
 To-day the bramble bush is rank, 
 
 Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves, 
 And nodding near the wooden gate, 
 
 It shifts its shadow on the wall. 
 
 " ' T was here we walkt one quiet eve 
 
 The path beyond the ash," he said, 
 
 "And lingers over Wayland's wood 
 In fancy still the sinking sun, 
 
 When friendships we recall'd so oft, 
 
 Which then were dead with buried years, 
 
 And fortune's fickle change — but oft 
 
 What ruthless Death from Time had won. 
 
 And swing with rhythmic strokes their scythes 
 The mowers in the sultry field, 
 
 While through the orchard comes the talk 
 Of laborers in the curling corn. 
 
Poem II. 
 
 Under the 
 
 Willow. 
 
 Mosses. 
 
 15 
 
 And swings the bramble in the wind, 
 
 Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves, 
 
 As nodding by the wooden gate, 
 
 It shifts its shadow on the wall. 
 
 The sunlight sleeps upon the grass, 
 
 The soft breeze steals along the slope, 
 
 The willow rustles o'er the mound, 
 
 And near it rocks the eglantine ! 
 
DRIFT. 
 
 We sat that evening in the yellow mansion, 
 
 As shone the glimmering firelight on the hearthstone, 
 
 And o'er the landscape glowed the autumn sunset. 
 
 And in the pauses of our talk our faces 
 Turned long and often to the narrow windows, 
 Where in the sunlight swung the restless woodbine. 
 
 Hard by the oaks were red among the pine-trees, 
 Brown were the fields of meadow land beyond us, 
 And burned the maple by the ancient doorway. 
 
p< 5Sft, IL Mosses. 17 
 
 Gleamed in the glimmer of the waning daylight 
 
 The light spray of the restless surf below us, 
 
 And on the shore we heard the long waves breaking. 
 
 Beyond we looked so often to the lighthouse 
 Which rose so still and dark above the waters, 
 Or sometimes gazed upon the dusky headland. 
 
 While in the distance, as our eyes turned seaward, 
 We saw three white sails on the far horizon, 
 And over them the pale moon at its quarter. 
 
 Then as the evening stole so softly o'er us, 
 And faded from our sight the distant village, 
 The fields of autumn in the deepening shadows, 
 
 And in the twilight of the quiet landscape 
 
 The dark hills loomed beyond the silent meadow 
 
 So dim and vague to our imperfect vision, 
 
 Within was warm revived our ancient friendship, 
 The Past yet glowing from its half-dead ashes, 
 While in the fireplaec burned the dying embers. 
 
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 THE NIGHT-WIND. 
 
 So darksome are your boughs, unquiet pine-tree, 
 Within the mellow moonlight, and so heavy 
 Your midnight shadow on the summer greensward. 
 
 And over me where now I lie and listen, 
 I hear like whispers from mysterious voices, 
 The faint, low murmur of the fitful night-wind. 
 
 O pine-tree ! so unquiet in the midnight, 
 And always in your sombre branches sighing, 
 Like some unhappy spirit earthward straying, 
 
 In all the burden of your constant sadness, 
 
 One plaint you have — 't is " Nevermore " and " Never,' 
 
 Whispers of Yesterday and of To-Morrow ! 
 
IN THE LAP OF EARTH. 
 
 Hard by the dusty highway of the village, 
 The ancient wall secludes the still inclosure, 
 A peaceful plot of earth, the village churchyard. 
 
 Not far from 
 the well- 
 worn road. 
 
 And near it stands the ancient church whose windows 
 On one side from the high and narrow casements, 
 Look silent o'er it with their panes so sombre. 
 
 Near it the 
 rustic fane. 
 
 Rank grows the grass beneath its solemn shadow, 
 So dense and wild on that dark soil the greenery, 
 And rank the elder by the gloomy gateway. 
 
 Luxuriant 
 is the 
 
 greenery 
 there. 
 
20 
 
 Mosses. 
 
 Poem V. 
 
 In the 
 
 Lap of Earth. 
 
 Across the wall luxuriant creeps the bramble, 
 th^brambie. And groups of children in the pleasant weather 
 Will often come to pluck its o'er-ripe berries. 
 
 About the And there you 11 see the red fruit of the eglantine, 
 
 place 
 
 can be seen With here and there a sad, low shrub of hemlock, 
 
 an 
 
 evergreen, a s t U nted fir, a scarlet-colored sumac. 
 
 Sometimes a willow or a scattered aspen, 
 A a raspen? r A rosebush there which early blooms in summer, 
 On some low mound the green leaves of the ivy. 
 
 Many an 
 early 
 
 and later 
 flower. 
 
 There oft you '11 see the white flowers of the bindweed, 
 And every May the violet or the bellwort, 
 In later months the aster and the cinquefoil. 
 
 the kara^f ^ e * eaves Y et gl° wm g on the wrinkled grapevine, 
 tte h^the In tne bare birches and the leafless locust, 
 and locust. Or by the fence a lingering goldenrod. 
 
 Soft is 
 
 the twilight 
 
 there. 
 
 The shades of night upon the grass are falling, 
 
 Where yet a woman lingers in the twilight, 
 
 And through the plaintive silence steal these accents : 
 
iTthe" Afosses. 21 
 
 Lap of Earth. 
 
 " Green is their turf, so green, who here are sleeping ! 
 
 The hillock long be green where weeps the willow, a h ^ ck 
 
 And twine the ivy round this quiet headstone. 
 
 Here oft be seen the king-cup and the daisy, 
 
 And ever on this spot the year's first violet, a voice. 
 
 Here every coming autumn late the aster." 
 
ON LOOKING AT THE PORTRAIT OF BURNS. 
 
 In fancy winds the Doon and blooms the heather, 
 
 It flows, and , 
 
 blooms, Still waves on Coila s sunny rigs the thistle, 
 
 and waves. 
 
 And caller gowans deck the field each season. 
 
 The aspects There Spring its soft flush brings to all the landscape, 
 
 of nature ° ° 
 
 familiar to 
 him, are pic- 
 imagination. And golden Autumn shines on fell and dingle. 
 
 Looks fair on bonnie braes the skies of Summer, 
 
 Oft as the light of morning gilds the upland, 
 
 Oft as . 
 
 these scenes Or in the shaw the Doon at mid-day lingers, 
 
 return, J ° 
 
 Or nightly sleeps the moon upon its bosom, 
 
Poem VI. 
 On Looking at the 
 Portrait of Burns. 
 
 Mosses. 
 
 23 
 
 Oft as are heard in mellow days the voices 
 Of cantie harvesters within the ryefield, 
 Or talk of reapers in the bearded barley, 
 
 The reapers 
 
 and 
 the harvest. 
 
 Or lads and lassies gather at the hamlet, 
 
 In moonlight dance upon the leesome greensward, 
 
 Or in the gloamin chat beneath the hawthorn, 
 
 The moon- 
 light dance, 
 
 the chat 
 beneath the 
 hawthorn. 
 
 Or often as the cotter sits at even 
 
 With ruddy face before the glowing hearthstane, 
 
 And near, with quiet air, the gentle guidwife, 
 
 The cotter 
 
 sitting by the 
 
 fire, the 
 
 guidwife 
 
 hard by. 
 
 Or caddies clatter idly at the alehouse, 
 Or household tale is told by winter fireside, 
 Or carlin croons her song beside the chimlie, 
 
 Or caddies 
 clattering at 
 the hamlet, 
 
 or fireside 
 talk, or carlin 
 
 crooning 
 
 her song, 
 
 So long shall there each rural scene and pleasure, 
 Lang Syne to every Scot so oft reviving, 
 Recall the name of Scotia's rustic poet ! 
 
 So long 
 
 Lang Syne 
 
 shall return, 
 
 So fresh his memory shall be kept forever 
 By every breeze that whispers in the bracken, 
 Or curls the grass beside each Scottish burnie, 
 
 So fresh 
 
 shall be kept 
 
 the memory 
 
 of Scotia's 
 
 poet. 
 
24' 
 
 Mosses. 
 
 Poem VI. 
 On Looking at the 
 Portrait of Burns. 
 
 By every wind that sways the summer thistle, 
 br rusties at ® r st ^ rs tne heather on the lonely moorlan, 
 Or gently rustles in the bearded barley, 
 
 So fresh his By every lad and lassie at the calchan, 
 
 shall be kept In every dance upon the leesome greensward, 
 
 in cottage 
 
 and hamlet. i n every cottage by the lighted ingle ! 
 
 Bonnie, beautiful. 
 
 Bracken, fern. 
 
 Brae, a bank, a declivity. 
 
 Burn, Burnie, water, a rivulet. 
 
 Caller, fresh. 
 
 Cantie, cheerful, merry. 
 
 Clachen, a small hamlet. 
 
 Clatter, to tell little, idle stories. 
 
 CoiLA, a district of Ayershire. 
 
 Cotter, the inhabitant of a cottage. 
 
 Carlin, a stout, old woman. 
 
 Chimlie, a fireplace. 
 
 Caddie, a young fellow. 
 
 Dingle, a dale. 
 
 Fell, a level field on the side or top of a 
 
 hill. 
 Gowans, daisy, dandelion, hawkweek, etc. 
 Gloamin, the twilight. 
 Guiowife, the mistress of a house. 
 Hearthstane, the hearthstone. 
 Heather, the heath. 
 Ingle, a fireplace. 
 Lassie, a young woman, — a girl — applied 
 
 particularly to a country girl. 
 Leesome, pleasant. 
 Rig, a ridge. 
 Shaw, a small wood. 
 
ONE EVE. 
 
 Well, here, at even, o'er the gate I'm leaning, 
 By the still way that leads to yonder village, 
 Whose panes against the western sky are gleamins 
 
 And from the Past one far-off eve is shining, 
 
 So warm in fancy is a vanished sunset, 
 
 When all the air was genial with the spring-time : 
 
 When the light breeze of evening wooed your tresses, 
 And heavy was the air with orchard perfume, 
 With odors of the lilacs and the pear-trees : 
 
26 
 
 A fosses. 
 
 Poem VII. 
 One Eve. 
 
 When half in shadow lay the vale beyond us, 
 
 And half the elms below were toucht with sunshine, 
 
 While at our feet the shallow streamlet lingered : 
 
 When long we talked of the bright days of summer, 
 Which soon would bring the field-sparrow to the upland, 
 At length the wood-thrush to the silent forest. 
 
 And here, at even, o'er the gate I 'm leaning, 
 While now, I think, so softly sleep the shadows 
 On one pale stone among the quiet willows ! 
 
 
II. 
 
 UNDER THE PINE. 
 
Here, as I sit beneath the pine-tree, 
 Which sighs and moans, 
 
 Awake within my soul the echoes 
 Of its low tones. 
 
THE LIKENESS ON THE WALL. 
 
 Here is her portrait o'er the marble bust, 
 
 And oftentimes upon the silent face 
 
 I gaze, when I am in a musing mood. 
 
 I m sure you '11 say the countenance is fine. 
 
 The quiet eyes are fair and full of thought, 
 
 But mild and dreamy as an autumn day. 
 
 The forehead is not high but beautiful — 
 
 The brows, I think, are delicately arch'd, 
 
 The nose as rare as Ariadne's. Yes, 
 
 The skill of Valentine so well has limn'd 
 
 The lineaments. See, now the hair looks warm, 
 
3° 
 
 Under the Pine. The^lLness 
 
 on the Wall. 
 
 Which falls about the temples, lending half 
 
 Its lustre to the neck in this soft sun 
 
 That through the casement gleams. And sometimes here 
 
 I linger in these quiet days an hour 
 
 Before this portrait. The original, 
 
 At rest, lies in the classic soil of Rome, 
 
 Hard by the pyramid of Cestius. 
 
 It is a still, secluded spot on which 
 
 The turf, moist with the soft Italian dew, 
 
 Each year is green. The violets blossom now 
 
 Upon it every Roman winter. There 
 
 Might one sleep well. 
 
 Quite true, you 11 trace, I think, 
 Some features in the physiognomy 
 And mine — a family resemblance — but 
 The likeness is not marked. Younger than I 
 By fifteen years, one mother had we both, 
 Not the same father. Of a gentle nature — 
 Of better mould, indeed, than common clay, 
 'T is ever thus that I recall her. 
 
 I 
 Remember well — 't was only three short months 
 Before we laid her in her Roman grave — 
 One cloudless evening of an autumn day 
 
The°Likeness Under the Pine. ?i 
 
 on the Wall. ° 
 
 We sat upon the Palatine, and saw 
 
 The clear sun set — as all the Sabine hills, 
 
 The summits of the distant Apennines, 
 
 With crimson glowed and purple, till at last, 
 
 The lingering sunlight through the ancient trees 
 
 Fell on the ruins at our feet, and stole 
 
 The deepening shadows over all the scene. 
 
 There as we sat beneath the cypresses 
 
 And watched at times the evening star, 
 
 As one by one the silent hours slid by — 
 
 Long talk'd we of that path our feet had trod, 
 
 And oft of what had been, but what would be 
 
 No more forever — of the mystery 
 
 Of Life, and -how the glory of the world 
 
 Doth fade, while Faith and Love remain. 
 
 There as we sat beneath the cypresses 
 
 And watched the evening star — as on her face 
 
 The moonlight fell, — "A few short months," — she said, 
 
 " And this frail frame of mine will quite succomb, 
 
 This transitory dream be o'er — and here 
 
 Amid the shadows of a twilight Past, 
 
 My sleep be calm even in an alien soil." 
 
 And through the solemn silence then we heard 
 
 The convent bell upon the Ccelian Hill 
 
 Tolling for midnight orisons. Ah, sir, 
 
32 
 
 Under the Pine. 
 
 
 Poem I. 
 The Likeness 
 on the Wall. 
 
 How often with the memory of her, 
 Comes back the hour ! 
 
 So mellow falls the light 
 Upon the face ! There something you will learn 
 Of that fair spirit whose remembrance still — 
 Through every year — is fragrant in my soul. 
 
 c^^vCl- 
 
A MILL-IDYL. 
 
 The Mill. 
 
 If, when you go toward Landis Green, you turn 
 
 A short half-mile this side the noiseless vill, 
 
 And cross the low-arched bridge that spans the brook 
 
 Where leans a clump of alders o'er the bank, 
 
 You '11 see beside the smooth and narrow way, 
 
 A dozen rods beyond the babbling stream, 
 
 Behind a locust and a sycamore, 
 
 The mill — and scarce a rod above it where 
 
 The willows, rank with ooze and moisture, droop 
 
 Above a shallow pond. In summer days 
 
 A pleasant and a dreamy shade is cast 
 
34 Under the Pine. AjSwdyi. 
 
 Along the by-road and about the mill, 
 
 And on the bosom of the quiet pond. 
 
 There by it every year the spearwort blooms, 
 
 And at its margin flames the marigold, 
 
 While bars of golden light the water streak, 
 
 And through the leaves the warm west glows, whene'r 
 
 The sun is low. You mount the great stone step, 
 
 Across the ancient well-worn threshold pass, 
 
 As swims the light dust in the beams that steal 
 
 Through the dim window-panes. And there the sound 
 
 Of grinding swells the hazy air within, 
 
 Which shakes the heavy cobwebs as they hang 
 
 About the windows where the huge flies buzz 
 
 And die. Therein so oft on cloudless nights 
 
 The silent moon looks wan. And window-frames 
 
 There rattle with a melancholy sound, 
 
 By gusty night-winds stirred. Then sway the long, 
 
 Lithe willows in the moonlight, and no more 
 
 The tranquil shadows sleep, but wildly dance 
 
 About the lonesome spot, and sleeps no more 
 
 Within the wrinkled pond the midnight sky. 
 
 In at the eastern window faintly peers 
 
 The morn. And half the long warm afternoons, 
 
 Through the great doorway burns the westering sun, 
 
 And creeps the shade athwart the dusty panes, 
 
AMiiT-idy!. Under the Pine. 35 
 
 As swift the swallow flits about the eaves, 
 Or sits the blackbird in the alder-bush 
 Hard by o* noons within the sleepy run. 
 
 The Miller. 
 
 The world is old, 
 
 And the burden theeof, 
 
 But the phoebe swings 
 In the reeds to-day, 
 On the water-way. 
 Thinks the miller as he 
 By the hopper stands, 
 " So long have spun 
 
 The mill-stones round, 
 
 As the grain I Ve ground ! 
 
 Yet the great wheel turns, 
 And the mill-stones spin, 
 And still I grind, 
 
 By the hopper here, 
 
 The grain each year. 
 
 So the seasons go, 
 
 While to-morrow brings 
 The selfsame task, 
 
 Till the wheel at the mill, 
 And Life stand still." 
 
INSIDE THE GATE. 
 
 You 'll see it near the ancient gateway, 
 But a rod from the low, dark pine — 
 I cannot tell how many summers 
 Has bloom'd over Alice 
 The clover. 
 
 It can be scarcely less than twenty 
 Since the willow was planted there - 
 And many autumns I remember 
 Has swung by the headstone 
 The aster. 
 
inTide ' Under the Pine. ^ 
 
 the Gate. ° ' 
 
 It can be scarcely less than twenty 
 Since the eglantine nodded there, 
 And waved above the spot the daisy « 
 Or crept o'er her bosom 
 The ivy. 
 
 And so beyond the ancient gateway 
 But a rod from the low, dark pine, 
 To-day the earth is over Alice, 
 And leans o'er the footstone 
 The yarrow. 
 
LOW-TIDE. 
 
 He askt 
 
 if it was the 
 
 tide. 
 
 I said 
 
 it was the 
 
 tide, 
 
 Breaking 
 on the 
 shore, 
 
 "Was it the Sea?" 
 
 He asked — 
 
 And far off broke the tide. 
 
 The words 
 
 In slow and faltering speech he spoke. 
 
 I gazed upon his countenance so pale, 
 
 Then out into the soft midsummer night. 
 
 " It is the tide 
 
 Which breaks below 
 
 Upon the solemn shore," I said — 
 
 " The never-resting waves 
 
 That o'er the shingly beach 
 
 Are breaking on the midnight strand " — 
 
 And stole the moonlight 
 
Low m T iIe. . Under the Pine. 39 
 
 Through the woodbine 
 
 Which the faint air scarcely stirr'd — 
 
 " There shines upon the Sea 
 
 The mellow Moon, 
 
 Which at the dawn will yonder set so warm ! 
 
 Yes, it is the tide, 
 
 . r Beneath 
 
 The breaking of the surf upon the shore, the 
 
 The moaning of the main beneath the full-orbed Moon ! " 
 
 Was it the Sea ? 
 
 Or broke the tide of Life so low ? the 
 
 Tide? 
 
 So calmly broke the tide of Life, 
 
 So low in Death's deep silence there. 
 
 And at my window, 
 
 Looking out between the vines 
 
 Upon the moonlit bay, 1 leanM 
 
 J against the 
 
 As long I lean'd against the panes — aJTheard 
 
 I heard no sound but of the Sea. the "sL. 
 
SEAWARD. 
 
 On the shore I stood, 
 
 By the ebbing tide, 
 
 Faintly on the long beech breaking. 
 
 And afar I saw, 
 
 On the deep, blue main, 
 
 Three ships slowly sailing seaward. 
 
 Three ships in the sun, 
 O'er the deep, blue main, 
 Toward the summer sunset sailing. 
 
Poem V. 
 Seaward. 
 
 Under the Pine. 
 
 41 
 
 Till I saw them sink, 
 
 Slowly dipping low, 
 
 To the golden gates of evening ! 
 
 Ah ! the ships that go 
 
 Over Life's wide main, 
 
 Time-borne barks returning never — 
 
 Will ye furl your sails 
 
 Yet in calmer climes, 
 
 Keeping still your courses seaward ? 
 
NEPENTHE. 
 
 So silent is the room — so husht and dim — 
 
 Where nothing breaks the stillness but the sound 
 
 Of our low voices — and the sombre gloom 
 
 Is pale with that scant light which yonder steals 
 
 Through close-drawn curtains and the darkened panes. 
 
 And yet why speak in undertones, or shut 
 
 The sunshine out ? The ear of Death is cold, 
 
 Nor would the eyes that closod at yester-eve, 
 
 Be dazed by this May morn. So fair, say you ? 
 
 Not Life itself could ever give to her 
 
 The beauty which this marble paleness does, 
 
 This marble-like repose. The quiet brow, 
 
 The calm and long-lashed lids, the lips, their sweet 
 
 Expression keeping yet, the dark-brown hair 
 
 Which softly falls about the pleasant neck, 
 
fcThe. Under the Pine. 43 
 
 Are passing fair. You can but mark, I m sure, 
 The chin so finely modeled — while the cheek, 
 Where scarce you see the ravage of disease, 
 Is in its wanness beautiful with that 
 Stray lock upon 1, 
 
 To-morrow they will bear 
 Her hence, and lay her loveliness away 
 Beneath the shadow of the aspen-tree, 
 By yonder church. 
 
 They 11 well perform their task ! 
 Alas, too well, as they will coldly heap 
 The clods upon her there. And then 1 11 wish 
 The earth that covers her would cover me. 
 If I could lie within the quiet grave 
 Which shall forever hide this lifeless form, 
 I 'd closely press the clay-cold face to mine, 
 And think Death lovely, for I 'd rest, I know, 
 In blessed peace with her. 
 
 So by the church 
 They 11 break the turf to-morrow, at the morn. 
 Yes, in the faint, gray daylight of the dawn. 
 
 
AGNES. 
 
 *T was by an altar, in an ancient church, 
 
 At Michaelmas, a maiden prayed for death — 
 
 And this the prayer she prayed so earnestly, 
 
 Low-kneeling there before the crucifix : 
 
 " O Son of Mary, who art pitiful ! 
 
 The freshness and the greenness of my life 
 
 Is gone — and oft my breath is but a sigh. 
 
 I am as one who sits in cheerless days 
 
 Above the dead, dry mould of summer fields, 
 
 And hears the mournful autumn sigh — or hears 
 
 The bleak winds wildly wail in all the woods 
 
 Of Spring. So dreary and so joyless seem, 
 
 Alas, all days to me, from morn to eve, 
 
P AgnIs n * Under the Pine. 45 
 
 At length this boon I ask — that I may taste 
 The sweetness and the blessedness of death." 
 
 The hoar frost came, then went the wintry days, 
 And warmer breezes stir the maple leaf, 
 The bramble-berry ripens by the wall. 
 Late is the hour, and scarce the wandering wind 
 Disturbs the hush of yonder lonely spot, 
 When underneath the silent summer moon, 
 She with a lover in the churchyard walks. 
 Why seek the two the churchyard lone and still, 
 Or there rewalk the grass-grown path so oft, 
 Where headstones glisten in the moonlight pale ? 
 Below the quiet moon they tell their love, 
 And plight their troth beneath the cypress tree ! 
 And so All-Hallows' soon should make them one, 
 The two be wed within the ancient church, 
 That stood with ivied walls and tower thereby, 
 Where once the maiden knelt, at Michaelmas, 
 And prayed before the crucifix for death. 
 
 All-Hallow night ; for months have come and gone. 
 Dim burn the lights within the ancient church, 
 While in the west the waning moon is wan. 
 So dense the throng, that scarcely there is seen 
 
4 6 Under the Pine. Po A e ^ ne v s n 
 
 The haggard sexton's form, whose grave hard by, 
 
 Within the shadow of the gloomy fir, 
 
 To-night is green — or hers, the withered belle, 
 
 Who died so long ago, or that frail form 
 
 Which so sepulchral looks amid the crowd, 
 
 On whom in autumn late the aster blows 
 
 Each year — or hers, with face so blanch 'd, who pass'd 
 
 One early morn from earth, and yonder stands 
 
 Before the picture of the risen Christ — 
 
 Or hers, the maiden by a lighted shrine, 
 
 Whose eyes on yon Madonna oft are bent, 
 
 Who faded like a rare and fragile flower 
 
 One far-off June — or scarce is noticed hers, 
 
 On earth a castaway, who gazes long 
 
 Upon the likeness of the Magdalen — 
 
 Or hers, on whom the grass is rank, who turns 
 
 So often to the painting on the wall, 
 
 The martyrdom of St. Sebastian — 
 
 Or hers, within the twilight of a niche, 
 
 Whose life went out upon her wedding-day, 
 
 On whom each spring has waved the guelder-rose — 
 
 Or hers, the fair bride once, but standing there 
 
 With countenance so white against the panes, 
 
 Who faded with the orange-bloom she wore, 
 
 And lies to-night beneath the eglantine! 
 
P ATrI n ' Under the Pine. 47 
 
 Lo, up the aisle the bridegroom and the bride 
 To the high altar walk. And there, as sets 
 The waning moon, and tolls the midnight bell 
 Within the ivied tower — the twain are wed. 
 
 And closely to his breast he presses her, 
 In his embrace! Then o'er her features stole 
 A mortal paleness — while in low, faint tones, 
 As when a breeze is dying in the pines, 
 She breathed these words in slow, expiring breath : 
 " Sweet is thy kiss, and yet thy lips so cold ! " 
 
THE CHURCH BY THE GREEN. 
 
 Yet stands the church by the village lawn, 
 And looks so dim o er the churchyard still. 
 (Death, the reaper, gathers his sheaves ! ) 
 About the windows the woodbine crawls, 
 And creeps o'er the eaves. 
 
 By its walls the leaves of the locust are green, 
 And green is the ash by the low church door. 
 
 (Leaves grow sere, like the hopes of men !) 
 The swallow builds in the belfry its nest, 
 In the gable the wren. 
 
 And tolls for the dead each season still 
 The sexton old the churchyard bell. 
 
 ("Ah/" he says, "dies the bloom on the flower !") 
 And a peal far out he rings each day 
 From the ivied tower ! 
 
THE LAST REQUEST. 
 
 I 'd hoped that I might see another morn, 
 But, doctor, ebb 's the tide with me. The pain 
 That rack cl my side is gone, and now my brain, 
 Which was a whirling world of cloudy thoughts 
 At last is clear. I Ve something on my mind 
 I 'd say, before the tide goes out. You Ve done 
 What you could do, but well I know, too well, 
 1 11 never in the good ship Neptune make 
 Another voyage. Ah, sir, closer come, 
 Or you 11 not hear. If you cl but take the load 
 From off my chest which makes my breath so short ■ 
 
 But no, you cannot — if you could, I cl try 
 
 7 
 
So Under the Pine. TheLa^uest. 
 
 To speak above this faint, low tone. Come close, 
 For I must make you understand. 
 
 O, yes,— 
 At Inveran I said she lived, hard by 
 The Galway coast. It comforts me to think 
 That I shall never know one bitter tear 
 She 11 shed for me. No, long this sleep will be, 
 I m sure, and then I shall not heed her tears. 
 What sound is that ? Is it the low night-wind 
 I hear a-moaning hoarsely in the pines 
 In yonder yard ? I thought it was the gale, 
 And we 'd been struck by some no'theaster. 
 
 So 
 The message, doctor, I ve not told you yet? 
 Here is a locket with her miniature. 
 This with the message send her, that to-night 
 My thoughts ofttimes went back to her, and say, 
 Why, say the voyage ended in a calm, 
 At last, after rough weather. 
 
 But a bell 
 I hear. The clock's which strikes the hour of twelve, 
 Say you? I thought it was a knell — and toll'd 
 The fate, at last, of some poor comrade. Well, 
 No clay-clods pile on me when I am dead — 
 They 'd press me down — the earth would lie 
 
The P S Revest. Under the Pine. 51 
 
 So like a stone upon my breast I could not sleep. 
 
 Ah ! *t is low water and the tide will not 
 
 Come in. Two mornings when the ship leaves port, 
 
 Make me a shroud o' the ship's sail — and then 
 
 Let some short service or a prayer be said — 
 
 And be my grave the wide, the wide, wild waves — 
 
 The bosom of the all-embracing sea. 
 
A REVERY. 
 
 The time, the place, I think, are now so distant, 
 It was an August eve, as I remember, 
 And we were sitting on the quiet grass-plot. 
 
 So gently o'er us stole the night's slow shadow, 
 
 So faint the lamp-light through the casement glimmer 'd, 
 
 So lightly in our ears the woodbine rustled. 
 
 So long we sat and watched the distant lighthouse, 
 The far-off village and the dusky headland, 
 So long the river flowing darkly seaward. 
 
 So oft the languid night-wind stirred your tresses, 
 So long our hands were claspt in that still starlight, 
 So low and earnest were the accents spoken. 
 
 So mellow 'd is the scene as I recall it ! 
 As when upon a tranquil night in autumn, 
 The moon on some far field is softly shining! 
 
III. 
 
 SEAWEED. 
 
Some seaweed strewn upon the shore, 
 Where breaks the tide of Life forevermore. 
 
A GLEAM OF MEMORY. 
 
 The hour I well recall, 
 
 The pleasant lawn, the vacant way, 
 
 Before the porch the ancient fir, 
 
 The room wherein I sat with her, 
 
 The flower-piece on the wall, 
 
 The sunset flush 
 
 That softly shone between 
 
 The quiet vines, 
 
 As stole the dreamy hush 
 
 Of evening over all the scene. 
 
 And I remember still 
 
 When the warm light went out above the hill, 
 
<-i 7 Poem I. 
 
 56 Seaweed. AGleamof 
 
 Memory. 
 
 And through the ivy faintly gleam 'd 
 The lamp hard by within the sacristy, 
 So long across the fields we looked 
 Upon the moonlit sea. 
 
 Yet in the hush 
 
 Of summer eves, 
 
 Warm glows and dies the sunset flush 
 
 Among the honeysuckle leaves, 
 
 And in my fancy one, 
 
 Within the shadows of the silent room, 
 
 Though over her the summer grass is rank, 
 
 Still fixes oft her wistful look on me, 
 
 Then gazes through the moonlit air 
 
 Across the shimmering sea ! 
 
THE SEXTON. 
 
 I m thinking, sir, I know it, every rod 
 
 And foot of ground hard by, and I have been 
 
 The sexton here for many a year, 1 11 say, 
 
 And made the graves here'bouts. Well, yes, the place 
 
 Is getting pretty full of mounds. 
 
 He stood 
 Beneath the locust-tree and lean'd across 
 His spade. 
 
 You see that headstone green with moss, 
 Between two smaller ones beyond the path. 
 I well remember when Job Randall went 
 To his last home. ' T was in a nipping air, 
 ' Faith, it was in the bitter wind of one 
 December day. He 's never minded much 
 The weather since I laid him by the wall. 
 8 
 
58 Seaweed. TheTexto, 
 
 You see the grave a few rods from the gate, 
 
 Where falls the shadow of the bramble-bush, 
 
 O' afternoons, upon a low, white stone. 
 
 Seth Peters I remember well. 'Twas on 
 
 A sharp mid-winter day I buried him 
 
 Beneath the snow. But snug he 's laid, I m sure, 
 
 In yonder spot since then. 
 
 There at your left, 
 The third one in the row, my friend, I call 
 A handsome slab. 'Tis not a score of years 
 Ago I heap'd the earth on ' Lijah Lane. 
 Old 'Lijah, may be you have never heard 
 Of him, and you 're a stranger in these parts. 
 But in the mansion over there he lived, 
 Where you can see the sycamore. He had 
 A deal of money when he died, and hugged 
 His gold. Yet little has he, but enough 
 To-day, a tombstone and that patch of ground. 
 Just there the headstone at your right, may be 
 A rod from youder ash which shades the path, 
 I used to think, too, was a handsome slab. 
 But o'er it yearly creeps the the dull, gray moss, 
 Which almost hides the name of Walter Clare. 
 Folks said he was a poet. All I know, 
 He sometimes walked about the village street, 
 
tIITJL. Seaweed. 59 
 
 Yet oft would wander through the fields and lanes 
 
 Alone in pleasant weather, sit for hours 
 
 Beside a brook and listen to the sound 
 
 It made among the alders. Once it was, 
 
 A bright June day, that by old Lockwood's mound 
 
 He lingered as I broke the greensward there, 
 
 One afternoon. " 'Tis not so poor a spot 
 
 To rest in when one lays his burden down," 
 
 He said. Just then the shadow of the church 
 
 Had touched the grave beyond. The robin sang 
 
 A pleasant song upon the aspen-tree. 
 
 And here the poet, too, was brought one day, 
 
 Before the next year went. But by the ash 
 
 So early blooms the king-cup over him, 
 
 So late the aster and the goldenrod. 
 
 I like to see a willow by a grave. 
 
 'Tis not so gloomy as your fir or pine, 
 
 And casts a pleasant shade. The willow-tree 
 
 Is green to-day where waves the eglantine 
 
 On Ellen Archer's grave. Ah ! she was young, 
 
 A lily, sir, that faded summers since. 
 
 So rank is there the grass ! Yet as I lean 
 
 Across my spade, still young I fancy her, 
 
 As when it was a pleasant sight to see 
 
 Her face at church upon a Sabbath morn, 
 
6o 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 Poem II. 
 The Sexton. 
 
 Or hear her sweetly sing the evening hymn. 
 
 Too young, too young and fair to die, I thought. 
 
 'Twas when I saw her cold, fair face, and placed 
 
 A single rose-bud in her snow-white hand. 
 
 Then at the funeral they sung the hymn 
 
 I 'd heard her sing but three short months before. 
 
 The other day, \ was but the other day, 
 
 I stood a. half-hour by her hillock. You 
 
 May be will think it strange. But somehow, friend, 
 
 The thought of her fill 'd both my eyes with tears. 
 
 I know the dead forever are at rest. 
 
 The young who die sleep well, and sound the old, 
 
 In this still spot. Yes, yes, the young lie down 
 
 At morning, but the old, I m sure, are glad 
 
 To reach the goal at night. There 's some that say 
 
 A churchyard is a lonesome place. To me 
 
 It is a kind o* pleasant spot. And here 
 
 I often think I '11 knock at Life's last inn 
 
 At night-fall, when the weary day is done. 
 
THE SOUL'S ECLIPSE. 
 
 a he seasons pass, 
 
 And yet so much from all the world is gone, 
 
 Since the one hour 
 
 Which I recall, alas ! 
 
 There is for me no glory of the dawn 
 
 Or mid-day, or of setting suns 
 
 Or starlit night, 
 
 Nor beauty of the flower 
 
 Or summer grass, 
 
 Or shadows sleeping where the winds are still, 
 
 Nor music to my ear of purling rill, 
 
62 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 Poem III. 
 The SouPs Eclipse. 
 
 Nor calm delight of solitude 
 Within the pathless wood, 
 And glows no more the golden haze 
 That fill'd the quiet autumn days. 
 
 The months go by apace, 
 
 Abides with me 
 
 But Memory. 
 
 Henceforth one hour shall unforgotten be, 
 
 The hour I looked on Death's pale face. 
 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 So long a while, remember, we Ve been friends. 
 
 It 's nigh two score of years that you Ve known me, 
 
 And I Ve known you, James Strong. I see your farm, 
 
 And you see mine. Hard by is both to each, 
 
 Between them but a scant half-mile. And we 
 
 Were friendly neighbors not three months ago. 
 
 1 11 own my temper sometimes is too quick, 
 
 And some hard things the other day I said 
 
 Of you, at Foskett's. Let them pass. Old friends 
 
 Should be old friends. 
 
 I never was the man 
 To envy your prosperity, James Strong. 
 Why should I ? Yonder farm of moderate size 
 I call my own, and where 's the man will say 
 To-day I owe him aught? But you, you look 
 
64 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 Poem IV. 
 The Reconciliation. 
 
 Each morning from your doorway there on your 
 
 Two hundred acres. Citizens are we 
 
 Of whom the people of this goodly town 
 
 Speak well. We Ve had enough of angry talk 
 
 About a paltry bit of pasture land. 
 
 Well, yonder is the horse I bought of Rugg, 
 
 Above a year ago, the dappled gray. 
 
 The animal has some fine points, you see, 
 
 A handsome leg and neck, a head I call, 
 
 Mark you, a beauty. Body not too long, 
 
 But well-proportioned, and an eye I like. 
 
 And there s the dark-bay horse beyond the roan. 
 
 I bought him when a colt. No animal 
 
 With fancy points, you see, and yet there s not 
 
 A better roadster than the bay. But come, 
 
 The horn has sounded. Now the dinner waits. 
 
 So no excuses, you shall dine with me, 
 
 When we '11 discuss a sirloin roast, the crops 
 
 And markets, try the wine which Kate has made. 
 
THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 
 
 Where the sunset glows through the leafless top 
 
 Of a single sycamore tree, 
 From the sunburnt edge of the short, crisp grass 
 
 The path creeps down to the sea. 
 
 Here as I sit by the cedar-copse 
 In sight of the summer grain, 
 
 Breaks on the hazy air so low 
 
 The moan of the distant main. 
 9 
 
66 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 Poem V. 
 The Two Travellers. 
 
 Beyond upon the shadowy cliff, 
 
 I hear at times the jay, 
 While yonder traveller's steady pace 
 
 Plods over the lonely wav. 
 
 But I will watch the warm light wane 
 Till the day to its goal has run, 
 
 I will seaward go at the voice of the sea, 
 And follow the track of the sun ! 
 
THE MAN OF BOOKS. 
 
 You see those sycamores. He lives thereby, 
 And has resided, stranger, many a year 
 In that square mansion. Little does he stir 
 Abroad, but spends his days among his books, 
 And, sir, he has no end of books. Year in, 
 Year out, he reads them, and 'tis wonderful 
 How much there is of learning in his head. 
 You Ve heard of cyclopedias, and yet 
 He is a library in himself, my friend. 
 Ah, well, he knows a deal about the men 
 Who lived so long ago. One afternoon, 
 'Twas at the mansion but the other week, 
 He learnedly discoursed an hour or more 
 Of ancient times, and much he had to say 
 About the famous days of Greece and Rome, 
 
68 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 Poem VI. 
 
 The Man of Books. 
 
 The mighty things which then were done, he said, 
 
 By Alexander, Caesar, Hannibal, 
 
 And others in the by-gone ages, sir. 
 
 I say, it is amazing, hearing him 
 
 Discoursing of the orators of old. 
 
 He handles them like any scholar. Yes, 
 
 He *s just an ancient with the ancients. All 
 
 The greatest orators are ancient, sir, 
 
 At least, so he has often told me. Quoth 
 
 He, \ was the afternoon that I have said, 
 
 "Ah ! tell me, what 's your modern eloquence, 
 
 Compared with that of hoar antiquity?" 
 
 And he will talk you by the hour, perchance, 
 
 About Demosthenes or Cicero. 
 
 You see the gateway. Yonder is the house. 
 You 11 find him there behind the sycamores. 
 
TO DEATH'S MESSENGER. 
 
 Tempt him with pleasant tones, 
 
 Allure him like the soft and gentle night, 
 
 From the oppressive, garish light, 
 
 The ways that men with weary footsteps tread, 
 
 To thy serene abode 
 
 Where comes surcease of sorrow, 
 
 And they who weep to-day will sleep to-morrow. 
 
 Entice him with sweet speech, 
 
 Win him to thy still realm 
 
 Where storms are husht, 
 
 Where winds are lull'd as at a summer eve, 
 
 Where the harsh sounds that pierce the day 
 
 No more are loud, 
 
 And wrap the darkness round him like a shroud. 
 
AS HE LEANED OVER HIS AWL. 
 
 I stick, sir, to my last, and keep my shop. 
 Here at my work I Ve sat, my shop I Ve kept, 
 For many a year. No stopping place, I find. 
 Drops in the parson of an afternoon 
 To chat with me, and no one better likes 
 A joke than parson Dale. In other days 
 Old Leonard here would come to sit an hour, 
 Talk of the weather and the crops, rehearse 
 The gossip of the town. No more the door 
 He opens now, nor in the village street 
 His face is seen. I recollect the time 
 They bore him to the churchyard on the hill. 
 Well, yes, mine is an honest trade, I say. 
 And yet, my friend, I do not occupy, 
 
Poem VIII. ^vnntlPPrl * T 
 
 As he Leaned over his Awl. OCUWeeU. 7 1 
 
 You know, the first seat in the synagogue. 
 There is 'Squire Anderson, up the broad aisle, 
 At church, he walks, the sexton with a bow 
 Shows the pew-door to him, and when he speaks 
 To men, they reckon it an honor. Folks 
 Are proud to shake the hand of lawyer Ladd, 
 Not mine. Yet mine, sir, is an honest trade. 
 
AFTER THE WRECK. 
 
 At the edge of the wind-blown pines, 
 
 The fisherman's cottage stands, 
 
 Down by the beach, 
 
 And the long, straight reach 
 
 Of the white sea-sands. 
 
 Sits in the cottage one 
 Gazing far over the main 
 Toward the quietly setting sun. 
 And there by the window-pane 
 Is a child with a sweet, sad face, 
 That wistfully 
 Looks out on the rippling sea. 
 
Poem IX. 
 After the Wreck. 
 
 Seaweed. 
 
 73 
 
 " Not to-night, alas ! 
 
 He comes not to-night," 
 
 The mother says, with a sigh, 
 
 And the fair child weeps, 
 
 And the mother gazes over the waves 
 
 With tearful eyes at the sunset sky. 
 
 But down by the beach 
 And the long, straight reach 
 Of the white sea-sands, 
 To the fisherman's door 
 Comes the fisherman no more. 
 
 10 
 
AT THE BURIAL. 
 
 At length, with heavy steps, 
 
 They bear him to his rest, 
 
 One with the weight of life oppress'd. 
 
 The pallmen slow 
 
 Their burden through the gateway bear, 
 
 And up the churchyard go. 
 
 There is the fresh, damp heap of earth, 
 
 In it is thrust the sexton's spade, 
 
 With which, at morn, the grave he made. 
 
 But soon the final words are said. 
 
 They slowly lower the dead, 
 
 And when all rites are done, 
 
At P th e e n B^ai. Seaweed. 75 
 
 The pallmen, one by one, 
 
 Walk out of the shadow into the sun. 
 
 Wanes the summer day, 
 
 Shine the headstones cold. 
 
 At sunset from the churchyard gate, 
 
 Went the sexton old. 
 
THE TWO WAYS. 
 
 ' T was at the parting of the ways we stood, 
 
 And goes the by-way there 
 
 Across the level lea, 
 
 The other by the silent wood. 
 
 We parted at the parting of the ways, 
 
 That never could for us be one, 
 
 And since so far apart our paths have run. 
 
 There winds the homeward way, 
 
 The other o'er the lea 
 
 Forever to the deep blue sea! 
 
IV. 
 AT THE MANSE. 
 
Here fall the rays of Memory on the fields 
 That once were green, 
 Like moonlight in a tranquil autumn eve, 
 Upon a far-off scene. 
 
PREAMBLE. 
 
 Half a mile beyond the vale, 
 Where the highway climbs the slope, 
 White with orchard bloom in May, 
 Near the weather-beaten church, 
 With the shadow of its spire 
 Stealing o'er the grassy graves, 
 Looks the mansion through the trees 
 Still across the vacant street. 
 Heavy is the perfume there 
 Of the lilacs every spring, 
 And beside the silent path 
 Blossoms yet the guelder-rose. 
 Ancient is the lonely Manse, 
 With its faded yellow walls, 
 And its roof with moss is green, 
 And the sombre window-panes, 
 Where the daylight steals within, 
 
8o At the Manse. Ma 1 ™ 1 ii 
 
 Mary Lane. 
 
 Half are hid by mantling vines, 
 While the honeysuckle creeps, 
 Rank about the sleepy porch. 
 
 There as seasons come and go, 
 Distant is the outer 'world, 
 Life itself a quiet dream. 
 
 lingering in the frosty years, 
 In the twilight of the Past, 
 In the dim, wainscoted room, 
 Sits a wrinkled, white-haired dame 
 x\nd relates these simple tales, 
 As I tarry for a night, 
 Late in summer, at the Manse, 
 On my walk from Stokeley Green. 
 
 As here through uneventful days I sit 
 
 Amid the shadows of my lengthen'd life, 
 
 I think of hours so oft that are no more. 
 
 And o'er the Present, like a setting sun, 
 
 The light of Memory ever softly glows ! 
 
 I still remember well, I say, the time, 
 
 It must be now two scores of years ago, 
 
 The season Edward Randolph led his bride 
 
 From yonder church. 'Twas when the locust-tree 
 
 Was scenting still the air of June. She wore 
 
 A wreath of smilax, and six wild-flowers in 
 
 Her hair. Ah, sir, to-night how fresh and fair 
 
3v le T Le A t the Manse. 
 
 Mary Lane. 
 
 They look, through forty years, as I recall 
 The scene ! As fresh and fair was Mary Lane, 
 As any flower that day. And all the scene 
 Comes back to me, as 'twere but yesterday. 
 
 Two miles away within a sleepy dell, 
 There is a little rustic bridge that spans 
 The brooklet slowly slipping through the run, 
 And where the sunshine scarcely steals at noon. 
 The crowfoot every summer lightly swims 
 In the dark waters of the silent stream, 
 While o'er the channel leans the celandine 
 From the moist margin which is rank with sedge. 
 And every season rocks the willow-tree 
 Across the bridge where creeps the narrow way. 
 The path crawls upward from the lonely run 
 Through birches and a growth of underbrush, 
 Winds through a copse of stunted oak and pine, 
 And then descends a gentle slope to join 
 A by-road, shaded oft by ash and elm. 
 
 Well, yes, so many times the path I Ve trod 
 To Mary's doorstep, when the orchard slopes 
 Were white, or days were balmy with the first 
 Spring buds. And still behind a pleasant yard 
 11 
 
82 At the Manse. u 7*\l 
 
 Mary Lane. 
 
 That blossoms every May with snowballs, where 
 
 The rosebush blushes by the path in June, 
 
 Where morning-glories half the windoAvs hide, 
 
 Looks the small doorway on the by-road near, 
 
 In autumn skirt with yellow goldenrod. 
 
 Twelve years had whitened yonder button-wood, 
 
 Each May, since tidings of the Falcon sunk 
 
 In Bengal Bay the story told how half 
 
 The crew with Randolph, master of the ship 
 
 Which foundered off the isles of Andaman, 
 
 One mournful day went down, as outward bound 
 
 It voyaged from the coast of Hindoostan. 
 
 To-night I recollect the afternoon 
 
 So well, when Edward's fate in Bengal Bay, 
 
 At length was but a scarce repeated tale, 
 
 As Mary and myself together sat 
 
 Within the same neat cottage by the way, 
 
 Whose threshold she had crossed as Randolph's bride. 
 
 Again the orchard blossoms scented ail 
 
 The air, and heavy was the perfume yet 
 
 Of lilacs in the yard. Then while his song 
 
 The bobolink across the grassland sent, 
 
 We caught the sight of neighboring fields, the brook, 
 
 The slope hard by, the wood beyond. Meantime 
 
 We turned the leaves of Memory o'er and o'er, 
 
Jryllne. At the MdHSe. 8 3 
 
 Mary Lane. 
 
 As toward the by-gone years we look 'd where some 
 
 Had kept for us their freshness still. " Sad breaks 
 
 The sea forever on its sands," she said, 
 
 " One word repeating ever, Nevermore ! " 
 
 "And yet," I said, " to-day the fair sun shines, 
 
 The vale is rich with orchard bloom, and fresh 
 
 With scent of lilacs and of snowballs, all 
 
 The air so fragrant with the balmy life 
 
 Which still the spring renews. So hearts may break, 
 
 And dead hopes rustle like the autumn leaves 
 
 With a sad sound beneath our feet — for us 
 
 Shall Nature smile, and woo us oft to its 
 
 Deep peace — and Hope, and Joy, and Faith, and Love, 
 
 Shall make the present and the future still 
 
 So rich with golden days. 
 
 And then, at length, 
 We both sat silent. Well, I thought the years 
 Had changed her since her wedding-day. So cslm 
 Her face in its pale beauty, and the eyes, 
 Oershadowed by the pleasant lids, at times 
 Were instinct with a quiet pensiveness. 
 A sweet expresaion had the countenance, 
 But it was thoughtful, and thereon I saw 
 The shadow of an unhealed grief, as when 
 A cloud darkens still water. 
 
84 At the Manse. M ™f£ 
 
 Mary Lane. 
 
 "True it is," 
 She said, as o'er the pleasant fields awhile 
 She gazed, " that Nature woos us oft to its 
 Deep peace. Yet oft to broken hearts, Hope, Joy, 
 And Love, are empty words. With me the Faith 
 Remains — and Peace — but not the Peace which Time 
 Or Nature brings to wounded souls." 
 
 Beyond 
 The Manse, in later months, the sumac leaves 
 Are red beside the churchyard gate, and shines 
 The scarlet hazel every year hard by. 
 Not distant from the path that yonder runs 
 Between the crowded, grassy graves, there is 
 A moss-grown stone. The poplar o'er it waves 
 Each year, where blooms the goldenrod, and glows 
 The ripe fruit of the eglantine. The mound 
 Is eastward of the middle path, and o'er 
 The marble creeps the vine. There half the name 
 Perchance the eye will read. The bramble leans 
 Against the footstone where the children come 
 To pluck its berries oft in summer-time, 
 The hawkweed and the aster in the short 
 Autumnal days. And oft the bluebird sings 
 In the gray aspen, in the mountain-ash 
 The oriole. So many times I 've heard 
 
aTylane. At the MaTlSe . 8 5 
 
 The linnet in the willow there, and once 
 The redstart in the solitary pine 
 That sighs above the low, dark wall. 
 
 I Ve sat 
 An hour sometimes by that still mound, or lean'd 
 Across the headstone. In that silent earth, 
 So peaceful is the sleep of Mary Lane. 
 
 I saw upon old Elinor's pale cheek 
 A tear. She bent her head in silent thought, 
 Then buried deep her face within her hand. 
 But Myra toucht, at length, the harpsichord, 
 And to its music sang a quiet song : 
 
 When shall Time its solace bring, 
 For the hopes that fade to-day? 
 
 In the yellow year? 
 Will it warm the autumn fields, 
 When from Life the summer goes, 
 
 And the leaf is sere ? 
 
 When shall Love in calmer days 
 Fairer be than fairest flower? 
 
 In the yellow year? 
 When the blush of June is gone, 
 When the bloom has left the rose, 
 
 And the leaf is sere. 
 
86 At the Manse. HesT/rHe 1 ; 
 
 Hester Hevne. 
 
 1 
 
 So died the song of Myra on the ear, 
 
 As in the dusky room we silent sat, 
 
 And on the darne I gazed in thoughtful mood. 
 
 She raised her head, but spoke not, as she looked 
 
 Through the still woodbine at the moonlit sky, 
 
 And soon again began : 
 
 In yonder vale, 
 Where two low willows drink the sluggish stream, 
 And spans the bridge the brook, the still road turns, 
 Creeps through a copse of maple, then by one 
 Low sycamore before a silent lawn. 
 Behind the lawn that every year is green 
 When the low sycamore is bare, and fields 
 By autumn frosts are brown cl, a mansion stands, 
 Whose walls are mantled thick with clambering vines. 
 The windows ever have a gloomy look 
 Where sleeps the heavy honeysuckle shade 
 When no winds stir. The straight and smooth-flagg'd path 
 Between the flower-beds from the gateway runs 
 To the worn footstep of a sombre porch, 
 While one lone locust leans against the eaves, 
 And steals its shadow o'er the ancient roof, 
 As sinks the sun. Each year the yard with grass 
 Is overgrown, the shrubbery untrimm'd, 
 The flower-beds oft are choked with summer weeds, 
 
sTefHeyne. At the McMSC . 8 7 
 
 Hester Heyne 
 
 And scarce the window-panes are visible 
 
 Through the thick greenery. So dimly Day, 
 
 Between the curtains and the dark-leaved vines, 
 
 Illumes the solitary, spacious rooms, 
 
 Or peers on cloudless nights the mellow moon, 
 
 Where Hester Heyne, sole heir 
 
 And tenant of the mansion, sits or glides 
 
 Amid the shadows of a distant Past. 
 
 Her face is thin, and snowy-white her hair, 
 
 Her features wrinkled, but there lingers still 
 
 A waning lustre in her mild, grey eye, 
 
 And light is still her step — her form as yet 
 
 Erect, or scarcely by the strong years bent. 
 
 Yes, long do I remember her as old — 
 
 A lonely woman with a high-bred air, 
 
 And with the manners of the olden time. 
 
 There often as the noiseless seasons go, 
 
 She spectre-like within the twilight walks, 
 
 Or near the great high window keeps her seat, 
 
 But sometimes in the lonesome later years, 
 
 Stands thougntful by a portrait on the wall. 
 
 The likeness is of him who in her youth 
 
 Her fresh heart won, but died upon the day 
 
 They would have wed. The face, which still survives 
 
88 At the Manse. hJ^hI; 
 
 Hester Heyne. 
 
 - 
 
 The dull and cankering tooth of Time, is young, 
 
 With pleasant lineaments and handsome mouth, 
 
 And lustrous eyes, and finely moulded chin. 
 
 The hair, of chestnut hue, in wavy lines 
 
 Falls to the shoulders, and the brow is fair. 
 
 Ah ! when upon the canvas streams a ray 
 
 Of golden sunshine, all the countenance 
 
 Is life-like, where the lips forever seem 
 
 About to speak. From a small casket nigh, 
 
 Long kept within an antique cabinet, 
 
 She takes a single, slender, dark-brown lock, 
 
 Whereon she gazes in her revery, 
 
 Yet from it she will often cast her glance 
 
 To the still portrait. But, at length, the lock 
 
 Replacing in its alabaster case, 
 
 She slowly shuts the cabinet and sits, 
 
 Her face deep buried in her hand for hours 
 
 In silent thought. 
 
 I know not if the dead 
 Ever come back to earth, or if they do, 
 Can be by human eye discern 'd. Yet so 
 It is affirmed, and manifest themselves, 
 At times, to our gross sense. Perhaps they do. 
 For who can tell what mystic ties may link 
 
B Te" le H"yne. AttheMcinse. s 9 
 
 The spirits of the Unseen World to this ? 
 But I, indeed, believe if from their sphere 
 They can to mundane scenes return, they must 
 Revisit oft the earthly haunts they loved. 
 Who knows but sometimes they are visible 
 To mortal sight ? 
 
 'Tis said, that as the time 
 Comes round that should have been her wedding-eve, 
 Old Hester for her lover patiently 
 Her vigil keeps. All night she is arrayed 
 As for a bridal of the olden days, 
 In costly but half-faded dress, and rich 
 Adornments of a fashion worn no more. 
 The story runs that at a certain hour, 
 Alighting from a spectral carriage near, 
 A manly form ascends the large stone steps, 
 The threshold crosses, entering the room 
 Without a footfall where old Hester sits, 
 As bride for bridegroom waits. And noiselessly 
 With scarce a gesture, it will seat itself 
 Beside the aged, withered dame. The lips 
 Oft move as if in speech, but do not speak. 
 The features are of one in early life, 
 Fair-brow'd, with many a dark-brown lock, the face 
 Yet handsome, but the countenance is pale, 
 12 
 
9 At the ManSe. He^fllyne. 
 
 The eyes lack-lustred. Its allotted space 
 May stay the speechless and mysterious guest, 
 The still, strange visitor. But when the clock, 
 Which heavily ticks out the fleeting hours, 
 Strikes twelve within the dimly lighted hall, 
 The form departs, while not an echo breaks 
 The silence — crosses with a noiseless step 
 The threshold — quits the mansion — then is lost 
 In moonlight or the viewless air ! 
 
 Hard by 
 The breeze sighs in the single cedar-tree, 
 And year by year the one lone locust leans 
 Against the ancient eaves, and ever there 
 Are mystic whispers of the night and day. 
 And I have heard that oft on summer nights, 
 A wandering strain of fitful melody 
 Will through a window and the clustering vines 
 Steal softly on the silent air. So wild 
 And yet ethereal it seems, but dies 
 At times, or on the silence swells, like some 
 Rare harmony. At length, the strain will cease, 
 And quietly a feeble voice will sing 
 Some snatches of a half-forgotten song, 
 Or simple ballad to a plaintive air, 
 
HesTe^Heyne. At Hie MuilSC . 9 I 
 
 Which once, perchance, was often heard in days 
 Of yore. 
 
 The thorn-tree by the garden stands, 
 Where creeps the grapevine o'er the wall, and rank 
 The poppy grows beside the path that runs 
 Between the beds of marjoram and rue, 
 To the low grass-plot by a lonely tarn. 
 Thereby you'll see a button-wood and one 
 Sad fir, whose roots have deeply struck within 
 The darksome soil, and o'er the margin lean 
 The willows. Blossoms every summer there 
 The trumpet honeysuckle, every year 
 The marigold and celandine. The sun 
 Scarce lights the waters where the pickerel-weed 
 Crawls from the reedy bank. The owl will sit 
 In the high hollow of the button-wood 
 From the first flush of morn to dusky eve, 
 And hoot, yes, often in the moonlight pale, 
 Or in the moonless gloom. Ah, sir, the place 
 At night-fall is a spot which persons shun. 
 
 And plaintive were the words which Myra sang, 
 As then her fingers toucht the harpsichord : 
 
9 2 At i tie McMSe. The MilleVs Daughter, 
 
 Long we talk'd of autumn days, 
 
 Oft of golden sunset skies, 
 
 And the quiet words she spoke 
 
 In my ear are lingering yet : 
 
 " Southward soon the swallow flics, 
 
 But erelong with Spring returns, 
 
 In the Spring will you forget? " 
 
 Warm the field beyond me lies, 
 Blooms to-day the guelder-rose, 
 And the honeysuckle blows, 
 While the swallow northward flies : 
 Swallow, you may bring the Spring, 
 One the May will not restore, 
 Nor the Spring forevermore. 
 
 " She will not wake," said one, 
 " More still her sleep, at last, 
 
 Than low winds husht at eve, 
 Whose pain, we know, is past." 
 
 Fresh stole the early air 
 Across the summer corn; 
 
 The night had brought her rest, 
 Nepenthe at the morn. 
 
 Long has the small house yonder overlook'd 
 The orchard, where the well-worn pathway runs 
 To Dawson's mill. And from the wide highway 
 Which climbs the slope to meet the ; silent street 
 
The MilleVs Daughter. At the McMSe . 93 
 
 A little lane between the hedges leads 
 
 To the still cottage. Thence the eye may catch, 
 
 Above the orchard and neglected hedge, 
 
 A distant prospect of the vale below, 
 
 The winding brook that steals between the elms, 
 
 The peaceful meadow-lands, or upland farms, 
 
 With rustling grain-fields glistening in the sun. 
 
 Well, no, the cottage is not far away, 
 
 just up the shady, sleepy lane hard by. 
 
 There lives the white-hair'd miller, there has lived, 
 
 I m thinking, now two score of years or more. 
 
 And I remember at this hour so well, 
 
 The miller's daughter. Pleasant is her face 
 
 As I recall it, and the hazel eyes 
 
 Are full of tenderness, and fair is yet 
 
 The brow. What matters it if she has lain 
 
 For years beneath the aspen-tree ? The dead live oft 
 
 In Memory, and my thoughts are in the Past 
 
 To-night. 
 
 It was, but it was autumns since, 
 Upon a Hallowe'en, and in the rites 
 Yet practiced at that superstitious eve, 
 Twas said she saw a lover's handsome face, 
 
At the Manse. Thp M ; £± St 
 
 94 ^ "^ .U arise. The Miller's Daughter. 
 
 iter. 
 
 A mask, a coffin, and a snow-white stone. 
 
 And thinking of the face which she beheld, 
 
 Within the mirror of the darkened room, 
 
 She laughed. Nor ceased the giddy merriment 
 
 Until the bell within the ivied tower 
 
 Of yonder church toll'd forth the midnight hour. 
 
 That night like other Hallowe'ens had gone, 
 And often was recall 'd to mind the scene, 
 Whose rites had once evoked the mystic signs 
 Of Love and Death. 
 
 And in the course of time 
 The maiden's love was won, to her were pledged 
 The hand, the faith, the troth of Edward Earl. 
 
 The months went by, the seasons passed, a year. 
 But toward her lukewarm grew his heart. And still 
 At times, the two would walk the orchard path 
 In pleasant afternoons, or twilight grey, 
 Or sometimes loiter in the quiet lane, 
 Or sit an hour beside the cottage door, 
 As softly waned the light of setting suns. 
 October came ere long with mellow days. 
 He went more seldom to the cottage. Yet 
 Less frequent. Then, one evening at the gate, 
 
The MiUe^s Daughter. At the MdJlSe . 95 
 
 He press'd her hand, and said a calm " good by." 
 
 The " good by " coldly fell upon her ear, 
 
 And woke a mournful echo in her soul. 
 
 So fickle was her lover, it was said. 
 
 Nay, nay, but false the heart of Edward Earl. 
 
 One night, old Montague, the sexton, sat 
 
 Late in the sacristy, I Ve heard him say, 
 
 As through a window shone the summer moon. 
 
 And while he gazed upon the headstones near, 
 
 He thought how often he had ply'd his spade 
 
 And laid the dead to rest hard by. And oft 
 
 He thought of them he 'd brought to slumber there 
 
 Since the wild wintry night he last had rung 
 
 The old year out, the new year in. 
 
 " So fast 
 The hour-glass runs," he thought, "the years slide by! 
 At best life 's but a span. And well I know 
 The travellers reach the self-same goal at last, 
 Where all roads meet. To-night old Floyd sleeps well. 
 So sound by yonder locust Roger Rand. 
 To-night the grass beneath the willow-tree 
 Is green on Nancy Gavin's grave." 
 
 The breeze 
 Stole o'er the sexton's cheek, but scarcely stirr'd 
 The ivy at the casement. Softly gleam 'd 
 
96 At the Manse. n e MiS"« 
 
 The Miller's Daughter. 
 
 A moment in the west a setting star, 
 
 But lower ci o'er Langley's wood a gloomy cloud. 
 
 And gazed old Montague upon the scene, 
 
 The landscape glimmering in the moonlight pale, 
 
 Where vague the valley in the distance lay, 
 
 While far along the warm horizon loom 'd 
 
 The dusky outlines of the silent hills. 
 
 But white the headstones in the churchyard gleam ! 
 
 As in the sacristy the sexton sits 
 
 Buried in thought. But in the low church tower 
 
 The bell, at length, the hour of midnight tolls, 
 
 And wakes him from his revery. The tones 
 
 Die on his ear, and faint the lamp burns yet 
 
 Upon the table. Did he fancy it, 
 
 Or did a face peer on him through the vines, 
 
 A woman's face, a woman's figure glide 
 
 Among the tombstones, hasten down the path, 
 
 And straightway vanish through the churchyard gate? 
 
 The grass grows rank by Dawson's pond, and low 
 The willows o'er its margin lean, but bloom 
 The honeysuckle and the celandine, 
 The wild rosemary every summer there. 
 Dark is its water in the moonless nights, 
 
The MiHe^s Daughter. At the MatlSe . 97 
 
 And silent is the gloomy water-way, 
 
 As oft the beetle whirs among the reeds, 
 
 Or sometimes when the days are long, the crow 
 
 Will sit within the solitary ash 
 
 Hard by, or near it in the button-wood, 
 
 Half-dead at top, the blackbird watch the sun. 
 
 Still is the mill, and still the water-way, 
 And cool the shadows sleep in Dawson's pond. 
 They slowly bear her from the water's edge, 
 The miller's daughter, on the morrow when 
 Above the willows broke the morning light. 
 Yes, slowly in the early morning air 
 They bear her lifeless up the narrow path 
 That winds among the ancient orchard trees, 
 To yonder doorway where the woodbine hides 
 The miller's cottage. Ah ! her grave was deep, 
 In quiet water. 
 
 And beyond the church 
 They gently laid her, but with many a tear, 
 A few rods from the churchyard wall. And when 
 The sexton broke the fresh turf for her grave, 
 At morn, ' t is said the raven thrice he heard 
 Above him in the grey light of the dawn. 
 
 13 
 
98 At the MailSe. The MiUer's Da 
 
 The "Miller's Daughter. 
 
 Yet blossoms over her the goldenrod, 
 Each year the daisy. Late in autumn once 
 I pluck 'd an aster from her peaceful mound. 
 
 So ran the tale that Elinor rehearsed, 
 
 And thus the words, at length, which Myra sang: 
 
 Yes, often I recall the summer hour, 
 When slowly walking on the sandy shore, 
 We paused, at length, beside the restless sea, 
 And said, " So far apart our paths would be, 
 That hence would not be one forevermore." 
 
 And softly o'er us shone the sinking sun, 
 That toucht the hills beyond the quiet lea, 
 And as we lingered by the solemn main, 
 We knew how wide apart our paths would be, 
 Which never, never could be one again. 
 
 We parted at the spot, 
 
 Where I am lingering yet; 
 
 The words, long since, we spoke, 
 Remains the vain regret. 
 
 The vain regret ! the fault 
 
 To-day I clearly see; 
 We miss'd the flower that bloomed 
 
 But once for you and me ! 
 
The Musician and his At tke AfciflSe. 99 
 
 Daughter. 
 
 Yes, I remember one to-night who lived 
 
 At Stokeley Green, a score of years ago, 
 
 The rare musician. Often I recall 
 
 The pale Annette, his only child, and scarce 
 
 Seventeen, his sole companion. Other kin 
 
 The man had none. Born in a foreign land, 
 
 By masters taught in Germany, 
 
 He was himself a master of his art, 
 
 And played his violin with such a skill 
 
 That few could equal it beyond the sea, 
 
 Much less in all the region hereabout. 
 
 Annette, (she always seemed to me so frail,) 
 
 Not little of old Herman's genius had, 
 
 And none who ever heard her sing forgot 
 
 Her voice, for marvelous I thought it was, 
 
 And lingers in my memory yet despite 
 
 The lapse of time. You Ve heard in some deep wood 
 
 The thrush, as you have lingering stood to catch 
 
 Its clear, ethereal strain, that charmed at times 
 
 The stillness and your ear. Such the young girl. 
 
 She was the thrush indeed that charmed all ears. 
 
 A gentle nature ever I remarked 
 
 In her. Mild were her darkly hazel eyes 
 
 That always had a dreamy look. Her face, 
 
Tale IV. 
 IOO At the MatlSe. The Musician and his 
 
 Daughter. 
 
 I say, as I have said, was pale, yet were 
 The features beautiful. 
 
 Scarcely was heard 
 The music of the old man's violin, 
 But with it Annette's voice. And villagers 
 Whene'er they went along the way at night, 
 Would often stop to listen to her tones, 
 The strains of his rare instrument. 
 
 The face 
 Of Annette paler grew as months went by, 
 And yet a brighter lustre had her eye, 
 Her voice lost nothing of its marvellous tones, 
 But more and more ethereal they seemed, 
 Evoking strange, unearthly harmony, 
 Like that the air from some ^Eolian harp 
 Breathes on the ravish'd ear. 
 
 " She must not sing," 
 The old physician said to Hoff one day. 
 " Too weak the girl to exercise her gift 
 Of song. I know whereof I speak. Her hold 
 On Life is by a slender thread. So bid 
 Her for the present sing no more." 
 
 And went 
 The summer, came the mellow days, 
 With the sere leaves of autumn. 
 
The Musician and his At the MaUSe. 101 
 
 Daughter. 
 
 It was one 
 October night. The wind was up. The vines 
 Against the window-panes and casement swung, 
 The broken clouds across the sky were driven, 
 Obscuring oft the moon. And fitfully 
 Upon the lawn, from Herman's cottage, shone 
 The lamp-light through the restless honeysuckle. 
 Then was it that along the chilly air, 
 At length, to ear of villager, were borne 
 The strains of the musician's violin, 
 The rare tones of Annette. 'Twas said the notes 
 Were from a famous foreign opera, 
 Composed by some old master. Hour by hour 
 Ceased not the strains, against the windows toss'd 
 The woodbine in the gusty wind, the rack 
 Across the moon was driven. More rapturous 
 The music grew of Herman's violin, 
 The tones of Annette's voice. And still the light 
 Flares from the narrow casement on the lawn, 
 As from it still the rapturous harmony 
 Floats on the autumn breeze. But suddenly 
 It ceases. Nothing breaks, at last, the hush, 
 The solemn stillness of the lonely room, 
 But the wild night ! 
 
 So quiet was her sleep 
 
Tale IV. 
 I02 At the ManSe. The Musician and his 
 
 Daughter. 
 
 At morn — a dreamless sleep. Look'd warm the sun 
 At noon through rifts of golden cloud. 
 
 They bore 
 Her through the churchyard gate, and laid 
 Her by the locust, ere its yellow leaves 
 Were shed. 
 
 'Twas said, that afterward, at night, 
 From yonder cottage could be often heard 
 Old Herman's violin and Annette's tones. 
 
 Gently broke the languid tide 
 On the strand beyond the lea — 
 Faded from their sight the ships, 
 As they watched the sinking sun, 
 Sitting by the sea. 
 
 Went at length the sunset flush, 
 Stole the shadows o'er the lea — 
 Heard the quiet listening moon, 
 But reveals no words they spoke, 
 Sitting by the sea. 
 
 And ceased the music of the harpsichord, 
 The voice of Myra on the listening ear. 
 
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