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 Number Four 
 
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Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
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 CONTENTS. — Vol. I. : Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal. A very 
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%^t ^Kibersine ^literature ^eries^ 
 
 SNOW-BOUND 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER 
 
 WITR EXPLANATORY NOTES 
 
 BOSTON 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 New York : 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 18S3 
 
■hi 
 
 Copyright, 1866 and 1868, 
 By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Copyright, 18S3, 
 Bt HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Fress^ Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
L 
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 A WINTER IDYL. 
 
 "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so good Spirits 
 which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light of the 
 Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire : and as the Celestial Fire drives 
 away dark spirits, so also tliis our Fire of Wood doth the same." — CoJtt. 
 Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I. oh v. 
 
 " Announced by aU the trumpets of the sky, 
 Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight ; tlie whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, 
 And veils tlie farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopped, the coui-ier's feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
 Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 
 Li a tumidtuous privacy of storm." 
 
 Emerson, The Snow-Siormr. 
 
 The sun that brief December day 
 Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
 And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 5 Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
 Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
 A portent seeming less than threat, 
 It sank from sight before it set. 
 A chill no coat, however stout, 
 10 Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 
 A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 
 That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 
 
WHITTIER. 
 
 Of life-blood in the sliarpened face, 
 The coming of the snow-storm told. 
 IB The wind blew east ; we heaitl the roar 
 Of Ocean on his \\'intry shore, 
 And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
 Beat witli low rhythm our inland air. 
 
 Meanwliile we did our nightly chores, — 
 
 20 Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
 Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
 Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : 
 Heard the hoi^e whinnying for his corn ; 
 And, sharply clasliing horn on horn, 
 
 26 Impatient down the stanchion rows 
 The cattle shake their wdnut bows ; 
 Wliile, peering from his early perch 
 Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
 The cock his crested helmet bent 
 
 30 And down his queridous challenge sent. 
 Unwarmed by any sunset hght 
 The gTay day darkened into night, 
 A night made hoary with tlie swarm 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
 
 35 As zigzag wavering to and fro 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 And ere the eai-ly bedtime came 
 The wliite drift piled the window-frame. 
 And through the glass the clothes-hne posts 
 
 40 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on : 
 The morning broke without a sun ; 
 In tiny spheride traced with lines 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 5 
 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 46 111 starry flake and pellicle 
 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 
 We looked upon a world unknown. 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 60 Around the glistening wonder bent 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament, 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, — 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 55 Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes and towers 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 
 
 Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 
 
 A smooth Avhite mound the brusli-pile showed, 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
 60 The bridle-post an old man sat 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat"; 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 65 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 
 
 A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
 Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " 
 Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 
 Count such a summons less than joy ?) 
 
 65. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Italy, which inclines from the perpen- 
 dicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a campanile, or bell-tower, 
 built of white marble, very beautiful, but so famous for its singular deflection 
 from perpendicularity as to be known almost wholly as a ciu-iosity. Opinions 
 differ as to the leaning being the result of accident or design, but the better 
 judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on which it is built. 
 The Cathedral to which it belongs has suffered so much from a similar cause 
 that there is not a vertical line in it. 
 
6 WHITTIER. 
 
 70 Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 
 
 AVith mittened hands, and caps drawn low, 
 To guard our necks and ears from snow, 
 
 We cut the soHd whiteness through. 
 
 And, where the drift was deejiest, made 
 76 A tunnel walled and overlaid 
 
 With dazzling crystal : we had read 
 
 Of rare Aladdin*s wondrous cave, 
 
 And to our own his name we gave, 
 
 With many a wish the luck were ours 
 80 To test his lamp's supernal powers. 
 
 We reached the barn with merry din, 
 
 And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
 
 The old horse thrust his long head out. 
 
 And grave with wonder gazed about ; 
 85 The cock his lusty greeting said, 
 
 And forth his speckled harem led ; 
 
 The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked. 
 
 And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 
 
 The horned patriai^ch of the sheej), 
 90 Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep. 
 
 Shook his sage head with gesture mute. 
 
 And emphasized with stamp of foot. 
 
 All day the gusty north-wind bore 
 The loosening drift its breath before ; 
 95 Low circling round its southern zone, 
 The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
 No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
 To the savage air, no social smoke 
 Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
 
 90. Aviun, or Aramon, was an Egyptian being, representing an attribute 
 of Deity under the form of a ram. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 100 A solitude made more intense ^/ 
 By dreary-voiced elements, 
 The shrieking of the mindless wind, 
 The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
 And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
 
 105 Of ghostly finger-tiiDS of sleet. 
 Beyond the circle of our hearth 
 No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
 Unbound the spell, and testified 
 Of human life and thought outside. 
 
 110 We minded that the sharpest ear 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 The music of whose liquid lip 
 Had been to us companionship. 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 
 115 To have an almost human tone. 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west. 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 
 120 We piled with care our nightly stack 
 Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 And on its top the stout back-stick ; 
 The knotty forestick laid apart, 
 
 125 And filled between with curious art 
 The ragged brush ; then, hovering near. 
 We watched the first red blaze appear. 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
 
 130 Until the old, rude-furnished room 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
 
WniTTlER. 
 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
 
 135 Our own warm heartli seemed blazing free. 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
 The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 While cliildish fancy, prompt to tell 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
 140 Whispered the old rhyme : '• Under the tree, 
 When fire outdoors burns merrily, 
 There the luitches are making teaJ' 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 
 »i45 Transfigured in the silver flood, 
 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 Took shadow, or the sombre green 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 
 150 Against the whiteness of their back. 
 For such a world and such a night 
 Most fitting that unwarming light. 
 Which oidy seemed where'er it fell 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
 155 Shut in from all the world without. 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 In battle rage at pane and door. 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 
 160 The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed, 
 
 165 The house-dog on his paws outspread 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
 And, for the winter fireside meet, 
 
 170 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
 The mug of cider simmered slow, 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 175 What matter how the night behaved ? 
 
 What matter how the north-wind raved ? 
 
 Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
 
 Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 
 
 O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 
 180 As was my sire's that winter day, 
 
 How strange it seems, with so much gone 
 
 Of life and love, to still live on ! 
 
 Ah, brother ! only I and thou 
 
 Are left of all that circle now, — 
 185 The dear home faces whereupon 
 
 That fitful firelight paled and shone. 
 
 Henceforward, listen as we will. 
 
 The voices of that hearth are still ; 
 
 Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
 190 Those lighted faces smile no more. 
 
 We tread the paths their feet have worn, 
 We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
 We hear, like them, the hum of bees 
 
 And rustle of the bladed corn : 
 
10 WniTTlER. 
 
 195 We turn the pages that they read. 
 
 Their written Mords we linger o'er, 
 But in the sun they cast no shade, 
 No voice is heard, no sign is made, 
 No step is on the conscious lloor ! 
 200 Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust 
 (Since He who knows our need is just) 
 That somehow, somewhere, meet we must, 
 Alas for him who never sees 
 Tlie stars shine through his cypress-trees ! 
 305 Who. hopeless, lays his dead away, 
 Nor looks to see the breaking day 
 Across the mournful marUes play ! 
 Wlio hath not learned, in hours of faith. 
 The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
 210 That Life is ever lord of Death. 
 
 And Love can never lose its own ! 
 
 We sped the time with stories old. 
 Wrought puzzles out. and riddles told. 
 Or stammered from our school-book lore 
 215 •• The chief of Gambia's golden shore.*' 
 How often since, when all the land 
 Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand. 
 As if a trumpet called. I 've heard 
 Dame Mercy Warren's rousing word : 
 220 "Does not the voice of reason cry, 
 
 Claim the first right tchich Nature gave, 
 Fi^n the red scourge of bondage fig, 
 
 Xor deign to live a burdened slave ! " 
 
 '219. Mrs. Merv-y Warren w-.vs the wife of James Warren, a prominen; patriot 
 at the begiimiusr of the Revolution. Her poetry \ras read in an age that had 
 in America little to read under that name : her societj- was sought by the best 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 11 
 
 Our father rode again his ride 
 225 On Memphremagog's wooded side ; 
 Sat down again to moose and samp 
 In trapper's hut and Indian cam^:) ; 
 Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 
 Beneath St. Fran9ois' hemlock-trees ; 
 230 Asfain for him the moonlight shone 
 On Norman cap and bodiced zone ; 
 Again he heard the violin play 
 Which led the village dance away, 
 And mingled in its merry whirl 
 235 The grandam and the laughing girl. 
 Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
 Where Salisbury's level marshes sjjread 
 
 Mile-wide as flies the laden bee ; 
 Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
 240 Swei)t, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 
 The low green prairies of the sea. 
 We shared the fishing of Boar's Head, 
 And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 
 The hake-broil on the driftwood coals ; 
 245 The chowder on the sand-beach made. 
 Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
 With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
 We heard the tales of witchcraft old, 
 And dream and sign and marvel told 
 260 To sleepy listeners as they lay 
 Stretched idly on the salted hay. 
 Adrift along the winding shores. 
 
 When favoring breezes deigned to blow 
 The square sail of the gundalow, 
 255 And idle lay the useless oars. 
 
12 WHITTIER. 
 
 Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stoeking-heel. 
 Told how the Indian honles came down 
 At midnight on Coohecho town, 
 
 »• And how her own great-nnele bore 
 His cruel soalp-mark to foresoore. 
 Recalling, in her litiing phrase. 
 So rich and picturesque and free 
 (The common unrhvmed poetry 
 
 »» Of simple life and coonrry ways). 
 The story of her early days. — 
 She made us welcome to her home ; 
 Old hearths grew wide to give u? room ; 
 We srole with her a frightened look 
 
 ATt At the gray wizard's conjuring-book. 
 The fame whereof went far and wide 
 Through aU the simple country-<?ide ; 
 We heard the hawks at twilight play» 
 The boat-hom on Piscataqua, 
 
 «T5 The loon's weird laughter far away ; 
 We lished her Uttle trout-brook, knew 
 What dowers in wood and meadow grew. 
 What suRUT hillsides autumn-brown 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 
 »• Saw where in sheltered core and bay 
 The dueks' Uack squadron anchored lay. 
 And heard die wild geese eaOing loud 
 Beneath the gray Norembep dood. 
 Then, haply, with a look more grave, 
 
 «» And soberer tone, some tale she gare 
 From painful Sewd's anci^it tome. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 13 
 
 Beloved in every Quaker home, 
 
 Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, 
 
 Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — 
 290 Gentlest of skij^pers, rare sea-samt ! — 
 
 Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 
 
 And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 
 
 And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 
 
 His portly presence, mad lor food, 
 295 With dark hints muttered under breath 
 
 Of casting lots for life or death, 
 
 Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, 
 
 To be himself the sacrifice. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if to save 
 300 The o-ood man from his livino: m'ave, 
 
 seemed to have as good an opinion of the book as Whittier. In his essay 
 A Quakers'' Meeting in Essays of EUa, he says : "Reader, if you are not ac- 
 quainted with it, I would recommend to you, above all church-narratives, to 
 read Sewel's History of the Quakers. . . . It is far more edifying and affecting 
 than anything yon will read of Wesley or his colleagues." 
 
 289. Thomas Chalkley was an Englishman of Quaker parentage, born in 
 1675, who travelled extensively as a preacher, and finally made his home in 
 Philadelphia. He died in 1749 ; his Journal was first published in 1747. His 
 owni narrative of the incident wliich the poet relates is as follows : '"To stop 
 their murmuring, I told them they should not need to cast lots, which was 
 usual in such cases, which of us should die first, for I woiild freely offer up my 
 life to do them good. One said, 'God bless you ! I will not eat any of you.' 
 Another said, ' He would die before he woidd eat any of me ; ' and so said 
 several. I can truly say, on that occasion, at that time, my life was not dear 
 to me, and that I was serious and mgenuons in my proposition : and as I was 
 leaning over the side of the vessel, thoughtfully considering my proposal to 
 the company, and looking in nij' mind to Him tliat made me, a very large dol- 
 pliiu came up towards tlie top or surface of the water, and looked me in the 
 face ; and I called the people to put a hook into the sea, and take him, for 
 here is one come to redeem me (I said to them). And they put a hook into 
 the sea, and the fish readily took it, and they caught liim. He was longer 
 than myself. I think he was about six feet long, and the largest that ever I 
 saw. Tliis plainly showed us that we ought not to distrust the providence 
 of the Almighty. The people were quieted by this act of Providence, and 
 murmured no more. We caught enough to eat plentifully of, till we got into 
 the capes of Delaware." 
 
14 WHIT TIER. 
 
 A ripple on the water grew, 
 A school of porpoise flashed in view. 
 '" Take, eat," he said, '* and be content ; 
 These fishes in my stead are sent 
 305 By Him who gave the tangled ram 
 To spare the cliild of Abraham." 
 
 Our uncle, innocent of books. 
 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 
 
 The ancient teachers never dumb 
 310 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 
 
 In moons and tides and Meather vrise, 
 
 He read the clouds as prophecies, 
 
 And foul or fair could well divine, 
 
 By many an occult hint and sign, 
 315 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries ; 
 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 
 Of beast or bird had meanmgs clear, 
 320 Like ApoUonius of old, . 
 
 "Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 
 
 Or Hermes, who interpreted 
 
 What the sage cranes of Nilus said ; 
 
 A simple, guileless, childlike man, 
 325 Content to live where life began ; 
 
 Strong onlv on his native grounds, 
 
 310. The measure requires the accent ly'ceiuu, but in stricter use the accent 
 is lyce'um. 
 
 3"20. A philosopher bom in the first century of the Christian era, of whom 
 many strange stories were told, especially regarding his converse with birds 
 and animals. 
 
 32-2. Hermes Trismegistus, a celebrated Egyptian priest and philosopher, 
 to whom was attributed the revival of geometry, arithmetic, and art among 
 the Egyptians. He was little later than ApoUonius. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 15 
 
 The little woi'ld of sights and sounds 
 
 Whose girdle was the parish hounds, 
 
 Whereof his fondly partial pride 
 330 The common, features magnified, 
 
 As Surrey hills to mountains grew 
 
 In White of Selborne's loving view, — 
 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
 335 The feats on pond and river done, 
 
 The prodigies of rod and gun ; 
 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold. 
 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
 340 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 
 
 The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 
 
 Went fishing down the river-brink. 
 
 In fields with bean or clover gay. 
 
 The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 
 345 Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 
 
 The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 
 
 And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 
 
 And from the shagbark overhead 
 
 The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 
 
 350 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
 
 And voice in dreams I see and hear, — 
 
 The sweetest woman ever Fate 
 
 Perverse denied a household mate, 
 
 AVho, lonely, homeless, not the less 
 355 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
 
 332. Gilbert Wliite, of Selborne, England, was a clergyman who wrote the 
 Natural History of Selborne, a mmute, affectionate, and charming description 
 of what could be seen as it were from his own doorstep. The accuracy of his 
 observation and the delightfubiess of his manner have kept the book a classic. 
 
16 WHIT TIER. 
 
 And welcome whereso'er she went, 
 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
 
 And womanly atmosphere of home, — 
 
 360 Called up her girlhood memories, 
 The huskings and the apple-bees, 
 The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, 
 Weaving through all the poor details 
 And homespun warp of circumstance 
 
 365 A golden woof-thread of romance. 
 For well she kept her genial mood 
 And simple faith of maidenhood ; 
 Before her still a cloud-land lay. 
 The mirage loomed across her way ; 
 - 370 The morning dew, that dried so soon 
 With others, glistened at her noon ; 
 Through years of toil and soil and care, 
 From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 
 All unprofaned she held apart 
 
 376 The virgin fancies of the heart. 
 Be shame to him of woman born 
 Who had for such but thought of scorn. 
 
 There, too, our elder sister plied 
 Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 
 380 A full, rich nature, free to trust. 
 Truthful and almost sternly just, 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 Keeping with many a light disguise 
 
 385 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 
 O heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
 That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest, 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 17 
 
 Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! 
 How many a poor one's blessing went 
 390 With thee beneath the low green tent 
 Whose curtain never outward swings ! 
 
 As one who held herself a j^art 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 395 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
 Now bathed within the fadeless green 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 400 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill. 
 
 Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
 
 Or silver reach of river calms, 
 Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
 With me one little year ago : — 
 405 The chill weight of the winter snow 
 
 For months upon her grave has lain ; 
 And now, when summer south-winds blow 
 
 And brier and harebell bloom again, 
 I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
 410 I see the violet-sprinkled sod. 
 
 Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
 Yet following me where'er I went 
 With dark eyes full of love's content. 
 415 The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 
 The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
 Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
 
 398. TA' unfading green would be harsher but more correct since the ter- 
 mination less is added to nouns and not to verbs. 
 2 
 
18 WHITTIER. 
 
 But still I wait with ear and eye 
 For something gone which should be nigh, 
 420 A loss m all familiar things, 
 
 In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
 And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 
 
 Am I not richer than of old ? 
 Safe in thy immortality, 
 425 What change can reach the wealth I hold ? 
 
 What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
 Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
 And while in life's late afternoon. 
 
 Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
 430 I walk to meet the night that soon 
 
 Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
 I cannot feel that thou art far. 
 Since near at need the angels are ; 
 And when the sunset gates unbar, 
 435 Shall I not see thee waitmg stand, 
 And, white against the evening star. 
 
 The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 
 
 Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
 The master of the district school 
 
 440 Held at the fire his favored place ; 
 Its warm glow lit a laughmg face 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 
 445 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat. 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 
 Born the wild Northern hills among. 
 From whence his yeoman father wrung 
 
SNO W-BO UND. 19 
 
 450 By patient toil subsistence scant, 
 
 Not competence and yet not want, 
 
 He early gained the power to pay 
 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way ; 
 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 455 To i^eddle wares from to\\Ti to town ; 
 
 Or through the long vacation's reach 
 
 In lonely lowland districts teach, 
 
 Where all the droll experience found 
 
 At stranger hearths in hoarding round, 
 460 The moonHt skater's keen delidit, 
 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night. 
 
 The rustic party, with its rough 
 
 Accompaniment of bhnd-man's-buff. 
 
 And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, 
 465 His winter task a pastime made. 
 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 
 He tuned his merry violin, 
 
 Or played the athlete in the barn. 
 
 Or held the good dame's winding yarn, 
 470 Or mirth-provoking versions told 
 
 Of classic legends rare and old. 
 
 Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 
 
 Had all the commonplace of home. 
 
 And little seemed at best the odds 
 475 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; 
 
 Where Pindus-born Araxes took 
 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 
 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 476. Pindus is the mountain chain which, running from north to south, 
 nearly bisects Greece. Five rivers take their rise from the central peak, the 
 Aous, the Arachthus, the HaUacmon, the Peneus, and the Achelous. 
 
20 WHITTIER. 
 
 480 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
 But at his desk he had the look 
 And air of one who wisely schemed, 
 And hostage from the future took 
 In trained thought and lore of book. 
 
 486 Large-brained, clear-eyed, — of such as he 
 Shall Freedom's young* apostles be, 
 Who, following in War's bloody trail, 
 Shall every lingering* wrong assail ; 
 All chains from limb and spirit strike, 
 
 490 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 The darkness and the ignorance, 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 
 
 495 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 The cruel lie of caste refute. 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 
 600 For blind routine, %A4se-handed skill ; 
 A school-house plant on every hill, 
 Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 
 The quick wires of intelligence ; 
 Till North and South together brought 
 
 806 Shall own the same electric thought, 
 In peace a common flag salute, 
 And, side by side in labor's free 
 And unresentful rivaliy, 
 Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 
 
 BIO Another guest that winter night 
 
 Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 21 
 
 Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
 
 The honeyed music of her tongue 
 
 And words of meekness scarcely told 
 615 A nature passionate and bold, 
 
 Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, 
 
 Its milder features dwarfed beside 
 
 Her unbent will 's majestic pride. 
 
 She sat among us, at the best, 
 520 A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, 
 
 Rebuking with her cultured phrase 
 
 Our homeliness of words and ways. 
 
 A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 
 
 Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash, 
 525 Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash ; 
 And under low brows, black with night, 
 Rayed out at times a dangerous light ; 
 
 The sharp heat-lightnings of her face 
 
 Presacrino; ill to him whom Fate 
 530 Condemned to share her love or hate. 
 
 A woman tropical, intense 
 
 In thought and act, in soul and sense, 
 
 She blended in a like degree 
 
 The vixen and the devotee, 
 535 Revealing with each freak or feint 
 The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 
 
 The raptures of Siena's saint. 
 
 Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 
 
 Had facile power to form a fist ; 
 540 The warm, dark languish of her eyes 
 
 Was never safe from wrath's surprise. 
 
 536. See Shakespeare's comedy of the Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 537. St. Catherine of Siena, who is represented as having wonderful vis- 
 ions. She made a vow of silence for three years. 
 
22 WHITTIEK 
 
 BroAvs saintly calm and lips devout 
 
 Knew every change of scowl and pout ; 
 
 And the sweet voice had notes more high 
 545 And shrill for social battle-cry. 
 
 Since then what old cathedral town 
 
 Has missed her j^ilgrim staff and gown, 
 
 "What convent-gate has held its lock 
 
 Against the challenge of her knock ! 
 550 Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, 
 
 Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, 
 
 Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 
 
 Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 
 
 Or startling on her desert throne 
 555 The crazy Queen of Lebanon 
 
 With claims fantastic as her own, 
 
 Her tireless feet have held their way ; 
 
 And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 
 
 She watches under Eastern skies, 
 560 With hoj^e each day renewed and fresh, 
 The Lord's quick coming in the flesh. 
 
 Whereof she dreams and prophesies ! 
 
 WTiere'er her troubled path may be. 
 The Lord's sweet j)ity with her go ! 
 
 555. An interesting account of Lady Hester Stanliope, an English gentle- 
 woman who led a singular hfe on Mount Lebanon in Syria, will be foimd m 
 Kinglake's Eothen, chapter ^iii. 
 
 5G2. This not un-feared, half-welcome guest was Miss Harriet Livermore, 
 daughter of Judge Livermore of New Hampshire. She was a woman of fine 
 powers, but wayward, wild, and enthusiastic. She went on an independent 
 mission to the Western Indians, whom she, in common with some others, be- 
 lieved to be renuiants of the lost tribes of Israel. At the time of this narra- 
 tive she was about twenty-eight years old, but much of her life afterward was 
 spent in the Orient. She was at one time the companion and friend of Lady 
 Hester Stanhope, but finally quarreled with her about the use of the holy 
 horses kept in the stable in waiting for the Lord's ride to Jerusalem at the 
 second advent. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 23 
 
 565 The outward wayward life we see, 
 
 The hidden siDrings we may not know. 
 Nor is it given us to discern 
 
 What threads the fatal sisters sjDun, 
 Through what ancestral years has run 
 570 The sorrow with the woman born, 
 AYhat forged her cruel chain of moods, 
 What set her feet in solitudes, 
 
 And held the love within her mute. 
 What mingled madness in the blood, 
 575 A lifelong discord and annoy. 
 Water of tears with oil of joy, 
 And hid within the folded bud 
 
 Perversities of flower and fruit. 
 It is not ours to separate 
 580 The tangled skein of will and fate, 
 
 To show what metes and bounds should stand 
 Upon the soul's debatable land. 
 And between choice and Providence 
 Divide the circle of events ; 
 685 But He who knows our frame is just. 
 Merciful and compassionate. 
 And full of sweet assurances 
 And hope for all the language is, 
 That He remembereth we are dust ! 
 
 590 At last the great logs, crumbling low, 
 
 Sent out a dull and duller glow. 
 
 The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
 
 Ticking its weary circuit through. 
 
 Pointed with mutely-warning sign 
 695 Its black hand to the hour of nine. 
 
 That sign the pleasant circle broke : 
 
24 WIIITTIER. 
 
 My uncle ceased his pijje to smoke, 
 Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
 And laid it tenderly away, 
 
 600 Then roused himself to safely cover 
 The dull red brand with ashes over. 
 And while, with care, our mother laid 
 The work aside, her stej^s she stayed 
 One moment, seeking to express 
 
 606 Her grateful sense of happiness 
 
 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
 And love's contentment more than wealth, 
 With simple wishes (not the weak, 
 Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 
 
 610 But such as warm the generous lieart, 
 O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its jjart) 
 That none might lack, that bitter night, 
 For bread and clothing, warmth and light. 
 
 Within our beds awhile we heard 
 615 The wind that round the gables roared, 
 With now and then a ruder shock, 
 Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
 We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
 The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 
 620 And on us, through the unplastered wall. 
 Felt the lightsifted snow-flakes fall, 
 But sleep stole on, as sleej) will do 
 When hearts are light and life is new ; 
 Faint and more faint tlie murmurs grew, 
 625 Till in the summer-land of dreams 
 They softened to the sound of streams, 
 Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
 And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 25 
 
 Next morn we wakened with the shout 
 630 Of merry voices high and clear ; 
 
 And saw the teamsters drawing near 
 
 To break tlie drifted highways out. 
 
 Down the long hillside treading slow 
 
 We saw the half-buried oxen go, 
 635 Shaking the snow from heads uptost, 
 
 Their straining nostrils white with frost. 
 
 Before our door the straggling train 
 
 Drew up, an added team to gain. 
 
 The elders threshed their hands a-cold, 
 
 640 Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 
 
 From lip to lip ; the younger folks 
 
 Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, 
 
 Then toiled again the cavalcade 
 
 O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 
 645 And woodland paths that wound betAveen 
 
 Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 
 
 From every barn a team afoot, 
 
 At every house a new recruit. 
 
 Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, 
 650 Haply the watchful young men saw 
 
 Sweet doorway pictures of the curls 
 
 And curious eyes of merry girls, 
 
 Lifting their hands in mock defence 
 
 Against the snow-balls' compliments, 
 655 And reading in each missive tost 
 
 The charm which Eden never lost. 
 
 We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ; 
 And, following where the teamsters led, 
 The wise old Doctor went his round, 
 
 659. The wise old Doctor was Dr. Weld of Ilaverhill, an able man, who died 
 at the age of ninety-six. ' 
 
26 WHITTIER. 
 
 660 Just pausing at our door to say, 
 In the brief autocratic way 
 Of one who, promj^t at Duty's call, 
 Was free to urge her claim on all, 
 That some poor neighbor sick abed 
 666 At night our mother's aid would need. 
 For, one in generous thought and deed. 
 What mattered in the sufferer's sight 
 The Quaker matron's inward light. 
 The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed ? 
 670 All hearts confess the saints elect 
 
 Who, twain in faith, in love agree, 
 And melt not in an acid sect 
 The Christian pearl of charity ! 
 
 So days went on : a week had passed 
 675 Since the great world was heard from last. 
 
 The Almanac we studied o'er. 
 
 Read and reread our little store 
 
 Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score ; 
 
 One harmless novel, mostly hid 
 680 From younger eyes, a book forbid, 
 
 And poetry, (or good or bad, 
 
 A single book was all we had,) 
 
 Where EUwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
 A stranger to the heathen Nine, 
 686 Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, 
 
 The wars of David and the Jews. 
 
 683. Thomas Ellwood, one of the Society of Friends, a contemporary and 
 friend of Milton, and the suggestor of Paradise Begained, wrote an epic 
 poem in five books, called Davideis, the life of King David of Israel. He 
 wrote the book, we are told, for his own divei ^ion, so it was not necessary 
 that others should be diverted by it. EUwood's autobiography, a quaint and 
 delightful book, has recently been issued in llowells's series of Choice 
 Autobiography. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 27 
 
 At last the floundering carrier bore 
 
 The village paper to our door. 
 
 Lo ! broadening outward as we read, 
 690 To warmer zones the horizon spread ; 
 
 In panoramic length unrolled 
 
 We saw the marvels that it told. 
 
 Before us passed the pamted Creeks, 
 And daft McGregor on his raids 
 695 In Costa Rica's everglades. 
 
 And up Taygetus winding slow 
 
 Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 
 
 A Turk's head at each saddle bow ! 
 
 AYelcome to us its week-old news, 
 700 Its corner for the rustic Muse, 
 
 Its monthly gauge of snow and rain. 
 
 Its record, mingling in a breath 
 
 The wedding knell and dirge of death ; 
 
 Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 
 705 The latest culprit sent to jail ; 
 
 Its hue and cry of stolen and lost. 
 
 Its vendue sales and goods at cost. 
 And traffic calling loud for gain. 
 
 We felt the stir of hall and street, 
 710 The pulse of life that round us beat ; 
 
 The chill embargo of the snow 
 
 Was melted in the genial glow ; 
 
 Wide swung again our ice-locked door. 
 
 And all the world was ours once more ! 
 
 693. Referring to the removal of the Creek Indians from Georgia to beyond 
 the Mississippi. 
 
 694. Ill 1822 Sir Gregor McGregor, a Scotchman, began an ineffectual at- 
 tempt to establish a colony iu Costa Rica . 
 
 697. Taygetus is a momitain on the Gulf of Messenia in Greece, and near by 
 is the district of Mxina, noted for its robbers and pirates. It was from these 
 momitaineers that Ypsilanti, a Greek patriot, drew his cavalry in the struggle 
 witii Turkey which resulted iu the independence of Greece. 
 
28 WHITTTER. 
 
 715 Clasp, Angel of the backward look 
 And folded wings of aslien gray 
 And voice of echoes far away, 
 
 The brazen covers of thy book ; 
 
 The weird palimpsest old and vast, 
 720 Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past ; 
 
 Where, closely mmgling, pale and glow 
 
 The characters of joy and woe ; 
 
 The monographs of outlived years, 
 
 Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 
 725 Green liills of life that slope to death, 
 
 And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
 
 Shade off to mournful cyjjresses 
 
 With the white amaranths underneath. 
 
 Even while I look, I can but heed 
 730 The restless sands' incessant fall, 
 
 Importunate hours that hours succeed, 
 
 Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
 And duty keeping pace with all. 
 
 Shut down and clasp the heavy lids ; 
 736 I hear again the voice that bids 
 
 The dreamer leave his dream midway 
 
 For larger hopes and graver fears : 
 
 Life greatens in these later years, 
 
 The century's aloe flowers to-day ! 
 
 740 Yet, haply, in some lull of life. 
 
 Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, 
 
 741. The name is drawn from a historic compact in 1040, when the Church 
 forbade the barons to make any attack on each other between sunset on 
 Wednesday and sunrise on the following Monday, or upon any ecclesiastical 
 fast or feast day. It also provided that no man was to molast a laborer work- 
 ing in the fields, or to lay hands on any implement of husbandry, on pain of 
 excommunication. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 29 
 
 The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, 
 Dreaming in throngfiil city ways 
 
 Of winter joys his boyhood knew ; 
 745 And dear and early friends — the few 
 
 Who yet remain — shall pause to view 
 These Flemish pictures of old days ; 
 
 Sit with me by the homestead hearth, 
 
 And stretch the hands of memory forth 
 750 To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze ! 
 
 And thanks untraced to lips unknown 
 
 Shall greet me like the odors blown 
 
 From unseen meadows newly mown, 
 
 Or lilies floating in some pond, 
 755 Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; 
 
 The traveller owns the grateful sense 
 
 Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, 
 
 And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
 
 The benediction of the air. 
 
 747. The Flemish school of pamting was chiefly occupied with homely in- 
 teriors. 
 
30 WEITTIER 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold 
 That tawny Iiicas for their gardens wrought, 
 Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, 
 And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers 
 
 5 Hang motionless upon their upright staves. 
 The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, 
 Wing-weary with its long flight from the south, 
 Unfelt ; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf 
 With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, 
 
 10 Confesses it. The locust by the wall 
 
 Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. 
 A single hay-cart down the dusty road 
 Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep 
 On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, 
 
 15 Huddled along the stone wall's shady side. 
 The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still 
 Defied the dog-star. Through the open door 
 A drowsy smell of flowers — gray heliotrope, 
 And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette — 
 
 20 Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends 
 To the pervading symphony of peace. 
 
 2. The Incas were the kings of the ancient Peruvians. At Tucay, their 
 favorite residence, the gardens, according to Prescott, contained " forms of 
 vegetable life skillfully »jiitated in gold and silver." See History of the Con- 
 quest of Peru, i. 130. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 31 
 
 No time is this for hands long over-worn 
 
 To task their strength : and (unto Him be praise 
 
 Who giveth quietness I) the stress and strain 
 
 25 Of years that did the work of centuries 
 
 Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more 
 Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters 
 Make glad their nooning underneath the elms 
 With tale and riddle and old snatch of song, 
 
 30 I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn 
 
 The leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'er 
 Old summer pictures of the quiet hills. 
 And human life, as quiet, at their feet. 
 
 And yet not idly all. A farmer's son, 
 35 Proud of field-lore and harvest craft ; and feeling 
 
 All their fine possibiUties, how rich 
 
 And restful even poverty and toil 
 
 Become Avhen beauty, harmony, and love 
 
 Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat 
 40 At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man 
 
 Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock 
 
 The symbol of a Christian chivalry, 
 
 Tender and just and generous to her 
 
 AYho clothes with grace all duty ; still, I know 
 45 Too well the picture has another side. 
 
 How wearily the grind of toil goes on 
 
 Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear 
 
 And heart are starved amidst the plenitude 
 
 Of nature, and how hard and colorless 
 50 Is life without an atmosphere. I look 
 
 Across the lapse of half a century. 
 
 And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower 
 
 2G. Tlie volume in which this poem stands first, and to wliich it gives the 
 name, was published in the fall of 1SG8. 
 
32 WIllTTlER. 
 
 Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds, 
 Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock, in the place 
 
 65 Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose 
 
 And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed 
 Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine 
 To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves 
 Across the curtainless windows from whose j)anes 
 
 60 Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness ; 
 Within, the cluttered kitchen floor, unwashed 
 (Broom-clean I think they called it) ; the best room 
 Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air 
 In hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless 
 
 65 Save the inevitable samj^ler hung 
 
 Over the fireplace, or a mourning piece, 
 A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath 
 Impossible willows ; the wide-throated hearth 
 Bristling with faded j^ine-boughs half concealing 
 
 70 The piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back ; 
 And, in sad keeping with all things about them, 
 Shrill, querulous women, sour and sullen men, 
 Untidy, loveless, old before their time. 
 With scarce a human interest save their own 
 
 75 Monotonous round of small economies, 
 Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood ; 
 Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed,- 
 Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet ; 
 For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink 
 
 80 Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves ; 
 For them in vain October's holocaust 
 Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, 
 The sacramental mystery of the woods. 
 Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, 
 
 82 But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 33 
 
 Saving, as shrewd economists, tlieir souls 
 And winter pork mth the least possible outlay 
 Of salt and sanctity ; in daily life 
 Showing as little actual comprehension 
 
 90 Of Christian charity and love and duty, 
 
 As if the Sermon on the Mount had been 
 ■ Outdated like a last year's almanac : 
 
 Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, 
 And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, 
 
 9s The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, 
 The sun and air his sole inheritance, 
 Laughed at poverty that paid its taxes, 
 And hugged his rags in self-complacency ! 
 
 Not such should be the homesteads of a land 
 100 Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell 
 As king and lawgiver, in broad-a<3red state. 
 With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make 
 His hour of leisure richer than a life 
 Of fourscore to the barons of old time, 
 105 Our yeoman should be equal to his home, 
 Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled, 
 A man to match his mountains, not to creep 
 Dwarfed and abased below them. I would fain 
 In this light way (of which I needs must own 
 110 With the loiife-grinder of whom Canning sings, 
 " Story, God bless you ! I have none to tell you ! ") 
 Invite the eye to see and heart to feel 
 
 110. The Anti-Jacobin was a periodical published in England in 1797-98, to 
 ridicule democratic opinions, and in it Canning, who afterward became 
 premier of England, wrote many light verocs and jeiix d''esprif, among them a 
 humorous poem called the Needy Knife-Grinder, in burlesque of a poem by 
 Southey. The knife-grinder is anxiously appealed to to tell his story of 
 wrong and injustice, but answers as here : — 
 
 "Story, God bless you ! I've none to tell." 
 
34 WHITTIER. 
 
 The beauty and the joy witliln their reach, — 
 Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes 
 
 115 Of nature free to all. Haply in years 
 That wait to take the places of our own. 
 Heard where some breezy balcony looks down 
 On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon 
 Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, 
 
 120 In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet 
 Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine 
 May seem the burden of a prophecy, 
 Finding its late fulfilment in a change 
 Slow as the oak's growth, lifting manhood up 
 
 125 Through broader culture, finer manners, love, 
 And reverence, to the level of the hills. 
 
 O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn, 
 And not of sunset, forward, not behind, 
 Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee 
 bring 
 
 130 All the old virtues, whatsoever things 
 Are pure and honest and of good repute, 
 But add thereto wdiatever bard has sung 
 Or seer has told of when in trance and dream 
 They saw the Happy Isles of projihecy ! 
 
 135 Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth divide 
 
 Between the right and wrong ; but give the heart 
 
 The freedom of its fair inheritance ; 
 
 Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so 
 
 long. 
 At Nature's table feast his ear and eye 
 
 134. Tlie Fortunate Isles, or Isles of the Blest, were imaginary islands in 
 the West, in classic mythology, set in a sea which was warmed by the rays of 
 the declining sun. Hither the favorites of the gods were borne and dwelt in 
 endless joy. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 35 
 
 140 With joy and wonder ; let all harmonies 
 Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon 
 The princely guest, whether in soft attire 
 Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil. 
 And, lending life to the dead form of faith, 
 
 145 Give human natm-e reverence for the sake 
 Of One who bore it, making it divine 
 With the ineffable tenderness of God ; 
 Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, 
 The heirship of an unknown destiny, 
 
 150 The unsolved mystery round about us, make 
 A man more precious than the gold of Ophir. 
 Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things 
 Should minister, as outward types and signs 
 Of the eternal beauty which fulfils 
 
 155 The one great purpose of creation, Love, 
 The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven ! 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 For weeks the clouds had raked the hills 
 
 And vexed the vales with raining. 
 And all the woods were sad with mist, 
 160 And all the brooks complaining. 
 
 At last, a sudden night-storm tore 
 
 The mountain veils asunder, 
 And swept the valleys clean before 
 
 The besom of the thunder. 
 
 166 Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang 
 Good morrow to the cotter ; 
 
 165. Sandwich Notch, Chocorua Mountain, Ossipee Lake, and the Bearcamp 
 River are all striking features of the scenery in that part of New Hampshire 
 
36 WHITTIER. 
 
 And once again Chocorua's horn 
 Of shadow pierced the water. 
 
 Above his broad lake Ossipee, 
 170 Once more the sunshine wearing, 
 Stooped, tracing on that silver shield 
 His grun armorial bearing. 
 
 Cleai' drawn against the hard blue sky 
 The peaks had winter's keenness ; 
 176 And, close on autumn's frost, the vales 
 Had more than June's fresh greenness. 
 
 Again the sodden forest floors 
 
 With golden lights were checkered, 
 Once more rejoicing leaves in wind 
 180 And sunshine danced and flickered. 
 
 It was as if the summer's late 
 
 Atoning for its sadness 
 Had borrowed every season's charm 
 
 To end its days in gladness, 
 
 186 I call to mind those banded vales 
 Of shadow and of shining, 
 Through which, my hostess at my side, 
 I drove in day's declining. 
 
 We held our sideling way above 
 190 The river's whitening shallows, 
 
 which lies just at the entrance of tlie White Mountain region. Many of 
 Whittier's most graceful poems are dra\vn from the suggestions of this coimtry, 
 where he has been wont to spend his summer months of late, and a mountain 
 near West Oasipee has received his name 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 37 
 
 By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns 
 Swept through and through by swallows, — 
 
 By maple orchards, belts of pine 
 And larches climbing darkly 
 196 The mountain slopes, and, over all, 
 The great peaks rising starkly. 
 
 You should hav€ seen that long hill-range 
 
 With gaps of brightness riven, — 
 How through each pass and hollow streamed 
 200 The purpling lights of heaven, — 
 
 Rivers of gold-mist flowing down 
 
 From far celestial fountains, — 
 The great sun flaming through the rifts 
 
 Beyond the wall of mountains ! 
 
 206 We paused at last where home-bound cows 
 Brought down the pasture's treasure, 
 And in the barn the rhythmic flails 
 Beat out a harvest measure. 
 
 We heard the night hawk's sullen plunge, 
 210 The crow his tree-mates calHng : 
 
 The shadows lengthening doAvn the slopes 
 About our feet were falling, 
 
 And through them smote the level sun 
 In broken lines of splendor, 
 216 Touched the gray rocks and made the green 
 Of the shorn grass more tender. 
 
38 WHITTIER. 
 
 The maples bending o'er the gate, 
 Their arch of leaves just tinted 
 With yellow warmth, the golden glow 
 220 Of coming autumn liinted. 
 
 Keen white between the farm-house showed, 
 And smiled on porch and trellis 
 
 The fair democracy of flowers 
 That equals cot and palace. 
 
 225 And weaving garlands for her dog, 
 'Twixt chidings and caresses, 
 A human flower of childhood shook 
 The sunshine from her tresses. 
 
 On either hand we saw the signs 
 230 Of fancy and of shrewdness, 
 
 Where taste had wound its arms of vines 
 Round thi'ift's uncomely rudeness. 
 
 The sun-brown farmer in his frock 
 Shook hands, and called to Mary : 
 236 Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, 
 White-aproned from her dairy. 
 
 Her air, her smile, her motions, told 
 
 Of womanly completeness ; 
 A music as of household songs 
 240 Was in her voice of sweetness. 
 
 Not beautiful in curve and line. 
 But something more and better, 
 
AMONG THE HILLS, 39 
 
 The secret charm eluding art, 
 Its spirit, not its letter ; — 
 
 245 An inborn grace that nothing lacked 
 Of culture or aj^pliance, — 
 The warmth of genial courtesy, 
 The calm of self-reliance. 
 
 Before her queenly womanhood 
 250 How dared our hostess utter 
 The paltry errand of her need 
 To buy her fresh-churned butter ? 
 
 She led the way with housewife pride, 
 Her goodly store disclosing, 
 255 Full tenderly the golden balls 
 
 With practised hands disposing. 
 
 Then, while along the western hills 
 We watched the changeful glory 
 Of sunset, on our homeward way, 
 260 I heard her simple story. 
 
 The early crickets sang ; the stream 
 
 Plashed through my friend's narration : 
 
 Her rustic patois of the hills 
 Lost in my free translation. 
 
 265 " More wdse," she said, '' than those who swarm 
 Our hills in middle summer, 
 She came, when June's first roses blow. 
 To greet the early comer. 
 
40 WHITTIER. 
 
 " From school and ball and rout she came, 
 270 The city's fair, pale daughter, 
 To drink the wine of mountain air 
 Beside the Bearcamp Water. 
 
 *' Her step grew fiiTner on the hills 
 That watch our homesteads over ; 
 275 On cheek and lip, from summer fields, 
 She caught the bloom of clover, 
 
 " For health comes sparkhng in the streams 
 
 From cool Chocorua stealing : 
 There 's iron in our Northern winds ; 
 280 Our pines are trees of healmg. 
 
 " She sat beneath the broad-armed elms 
 That skirt the mowing-meadoAV, 
 
 And watched the gentle west-wind weave 
 The grass witli shme and shadow. 
 
 285 " Beside her, from the summer heat 
 To share her grateful screening, 
 With forehead bared, the farmer stood, 
 Upon his pitchfork leaning. 
 
 " Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face 
 290 Had nothing mean or common, — 
 Strong, manly, true, the tenderness 
 And pride beloved of woman. 
 
 " She looked up, glowing with the health 
 The country air had brought her, 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 41 
 
 296 And. laughing, said : ' You lack a wife, 
 Your mother lacks a dauohter. 
 
 " ' To mend your frock and bake your bread 
 
 You do not need a lady : 
 Be sure among these brown old homes 
 300 Is some one waiting ready, — 
 
 " ' Some fair, sweet girl, with skilful hand 
 And cheerful heart for treasure, 
 
 Who never played with ivory keys. 
 Or danced the polka's measure.' 
 
 305 '^ He bent his black brows to a frown, 
 He set his white teeth tightly. 
 ' 'T is well,' he said, ' for one like you 
 To choose for me so lightly. >^ 
 
 " ' You think, because my life is rude 
 310 I take no note of sweetness : 
 I tell you love has naught to do 
 With meetness or unmeetness. 
 
 " ' Itself its best excuse, it asks 
 No leave of pride or fashion 
 315 When silken zone or homespun frock 
 It stirs with throbs of passion. 
 
 " ' You think me deaf and blind : you bring 
 
 Your winning graces hither 
 As free as if from cradle-time 
 320 We two had played together. 
 
42 WHITTIER. 
 
 " ' You tempt me with your laughing eyes, 
 Your cheek of sundown's bhishes, 
 
 A motion as of waving grain, 
 A music as of thrushes. 
 
 326 " ' The i^laything of your summer sport, 
 The sj^ells you weave around me 
 You cannot at your will undo. 
 Nor leave me as you found me. 
 
 " * You go as lightly as you came, 
 330 Your life is well without me ; 
 
 What care you that these hills will close 
 Like 23rison-walls about me ? 
 
 " ' No mood is mine to seek a wife, 
 •^ Or daughter for my mother : 
 
 336 Who loves you loses in that love 
 All 230wer to love another ! 
 
 " 'I dare your pity or your scorn. 
 
 With pride your own exceeding ; 
 I fling my heart into your lap 
 340 Without a word of pleading.' 
 
 " She looked up in his face of pain 
 
 So archly, yet so tender : 
 * And if I lend you mine,' she said, 
 
 ' Will you forgive the lender ? 
 
 346 " ' Nor frock nor tan can hide the man ; 
 And see you not, my farmer. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 43 
 
 How weak and fond a woman waits 
 Behind this silken armor ? 
 
 " ' I love you : on that love alone, 
 
 350 And not my worth, presuming. 
 
 Will you not trust for summer fruit 
 
 The tree in May-day blooming : 
 
 7 ' 
 
 " Alone the hangbird overhead, 
 His hair-swung cradle straining, 
 355 Looked down to see love's miracle, — 
 The giving that is gaining. 
 
 " And so the farmer found a wife, 
 
 His mother found a daughter : 
 There looks no happier home than hers 
 360 On pleasant Bearcamp Water. 
 
 " Flowers spring to blossom where she walks 
 
 The careful ways of duty ; 
 Our hard, stiff lines of life with her 
 
 Are flowing curves of beauty. 
 
 365 " Our homes are cheerier for her sake, 
 Our door-yards brighter blooming, 
 And all about the social air 
 Is sweeter for her coming. 
 
 " Unspoken homilies of peace 
 370 Her daily life is preaching ; 
 The still refreshment of the dew 
 Is her unconscious teaching. 
 
44 WIIITTIER. 
 
 " And never tenderer hand than hers 
 Unknits the brow of ailing ; 
 375 Her garments to the sick man's ear 
 Have music in their trailing. 
 
 " And when, in plea'sant harvest moons, 
 
 The youthful huskers gather, 
 Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways 
 380 Defy the winter weather, — 
 
 " In sugar-camps, when south and warm 
 The winds of March are blowing. 
 
 And sweetly from its thawing veins 
 The maple's blood is flowing, — 
 
 385 " In summer, where some lilied pond 
 Its virgin zone is bearing, 
 Or where the ruddy autumn fire 
 Lights up the aj^ple-paring, — 
 
 " The coarseness of a ruder time 
 390 Her finer mirth disjDlaces, 
 A subtler sense of pleasure tills 
 Each rustic sport she graces. 
 
 " Her presence lends its warmth and health 
 To all who come before it. 
 396 If woman lost us Eden, such 
 As she alone restore it. 
 
 " For larger life and wiser aims 
 The farmer is her debtor ; 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 45 
 
 Who holds to his another's heart 
 400 Must needs be worse or better. 
 
 " Through her his civic service shows 
 
 A purer-toned ambition ; 
 No double consciousness divides 
 The man and politician. 
 
 405 " In party's doubtful ways he trusts 
 Her instincts to determine ; 
 At the loud polls, the thought of her 
 Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. 
 
 " He owns her logic of the heart, 
 410 And wisdom of unreason, 
 
 Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, 
 The needed word in season. 
 
 " He sees with pride her richer thought, 
 Her fancy's freer ranges ; 
 415 And love thus deepened to respect 
 Is proof against all changes. 
 
 " And if she walks at ease in ways 
 
 His feet are slow to travel, 
 And if she reads with cultured eyes 
 420 What his may scarce unravel, 
 
 " Still clearer, for her keener sight 
 
 Of beauty and of wonder. 
 He learns the meaning of the hills 
 
 He dwelt from cliildhood under. 
 
46 WHITTIER. 
 
 426 " And higher, warmed with summer lights, 
 Or winter-crowned and hoary, 
 The ridged horizon lifts for him 
 Its inner veils of glory. 
 
 " He has his own free, bookless lore, 
 430 The lessons nature taught him. 
 
 The wisdom which the woods and hills 
 And toiling men have brought him : 
 
 " The steady force of will whereby 
 Her flexile grace seems sweeter ; 
 435 The sturdy counterpoise which makes 
 Her woman's life comjjleter : 
 
 " A latent fire of soul which lacks 
 
 No breath of love to fan it ; 
 And wit, that, like his native brooks, 
 440 Plays over sohd granite. 
 
 " How dwarfed against his manliness 
 She sees the poor pretension, 
 
 The wants, the aims, the follies, born 
 Of fashion and convention ! 
 
 445 " How life behind its accidents 
 
 Stands strong and self-sustaining, 
 The human fact transcending all 
 The losing and the gaining. 
 
 " And so, in grateful interchange 
 Of teacher and of hearer. 
 
AMONG THE HILLS. 47 
 
 Their lives their true distinctness keep 
 While daily drawing nearer. 
 
 " And if the husband or the wife 
 In home's strong light discovers 
 455 Such slight defaults as failed to meet 
 The blinded eyes of lovers, 
 
 " Wliy need we care to ask ? — who dreams 
 
 Without their thorns of roses, 
 
 Or wonders that the truest steel 
 
 460 The readiest spark discloses ? 
 
 " For still in mutual sufferance lies 
 
 The secret of true living : 
 Love scarce is love that never knows 
 
 The sweetness of forgiving. 
 
 465 " We send the Squire to General Court, 
 He takes his young wife thither ; 
 No prouder man election day 
 
 Rides through the sweet June weather. 
 
 " He sees with eyes of manly trust 
 470 All hearts to her inclining ; 
 
 Not less for him his household light 
 That others share its shiningf." 
 
 Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew 
 Before me, warmer tinted 
 
 475 And outlined with a tenderer grace, 
 Tlie picture that she hinted. 
 
48 WHITTIER. 
 
 The sunset smouldered as we drove 
 
 Beneath the deep hill-shadows. 
 Below us wreaths of white fog walked 
 480 Like ghosts the haunted meadows. 
 
 Sounding the summer night, the stars 
 Dropped down their golden plummets ; 
 
 The pale arc of the Northern lights 
 Rose o'er the mountain summits, — 
 
 485 Until, at last, beneath its bridge, 
 
 We heard the Bearcamp flowing, 
 And saw across the mapled lawn 
 
 The welcome home-lights glowing ; — 
 
 And, musing on the tale I heard, 
 490 'T were well, thought I, if often 
 To rugged farm-life came the gift 
 To harmonize and soften ; — 
 
 If more and more we found the troth 
 Of fact and fancy plighted, 
 496 And culture's charm and labor's strength 
 In rural homes united, — 
 
 The simple life, the homely hearth. 
 
 With beauty's sphere surrounding, 
 And blessing toil where toil abounds 
 500 With graces more abounding. 
 
EDITED BY MR. WHITTIER. 
 
 John Woolman's Journal. With an Introduction by J. G. Whittier. 16mo, 
 
 5? 1.50. 
 Songs of Three Centuries. Selected, with Introductory Essay, by J. G. 
 Whittier. Household Edition. 12mo, $2.00 ; half calf, $4.00; morocco, 
 or tree calf, $5.00. 
 The Same. Illustrated Libranj Edition. 32 full-page illustrations. 8to, cloth, 
 
 full gilt, $4.00 ; half calf, $7.00 ; morocco, or tree calf, $9.00. 
 Child-Life. A Collection of Poems for and about Children. Selected, with 
 an Introductory Essay, bv J. G. Whittier. Finely illustrated. 16rao, cloth, 
 full gilt, $2.25 ; half calf* $4.00. 
 Child-Life in Prose. A Volume of Stories, Fancies, and Memories of Child- 
 Life. Selected, with an Introductory Kssay, by J. G. Whittier. Finely il- 
 lustrated. 16mo, cloth, full gilt, !B2.25 ; half calf, $4.00. 
 Probably no better collection of poetry adapted to the reading of children 
 was ever published than that entitled " Child-Life '" edited by the poet Whittier. 
 It is in thousands of homes and is likely to maintain its distinction for a long 
 time to come. Every one who knows of that superior work will be gratified 
 to learn that the same pure and noble lover of children has compiled a com- 
 panion volume, entitled " Child-Life in Prose.'" It is a beautiful gift-book, 
 but better than this: it is a book for all days and for all ages, an enduring 
 satisfaction. For enjoyment and instruction, it is worth whole libraries of 
 common children's books ; indeed, this and its companion would constitute 
 a library for any family of children, the value of which they would never cease 
 to acknowledge. Parents who are forming little libraries for their household.'* 
 will do well to begin with these two volumes, even if their means forbid buy- 
 ing any others at present. — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 WHITTIER LEAFLETS. 
 
 For Homes, Libraries, and Schools. Edited by Josephine E. IIodgdon. 12mo, 
 illustrated. Same style as Longfellow and Holmes Leaflets. 60 cents. 
 Pamphlet or Leaflets, separate, 30 cents (for introduction 20 cents, by mail 
 23 cents). 
 
 WHITTIER BIRTHDAY BOOK. 
 
 Edited by Elizabeth S. Owen. With portrait and 12 illustrations. Square 
 18mo, cloth, tastefully stamped, $1.00 ; calf, morocco, or seal, limp, $3.50. 
 
 WHITTIER PORTRAIT. 
 
 Life-size, Sl.OO (Teachers' price 80 cents net) Small Steel Engraving, 25 cents. 
 
 *4(t* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on re- 
 ceipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 
 4 Park Street, Boston, Mass. 
 
 A Portrait Catalofpie of Houghton , Mifflin ^ Co.*s Publica- 
 tions, ivitk Portraits of more than twenty of their famous authors, sent 
 free to any address on application. 
 
Clic iSibemDe Literature ^eneg. 
 
 Averaging about yo pages. 
 EACH NUMBER 15 CENTS. 
 
 I. Longfellow's Evangeline. 
 
 With Biographical Sketch, Historical Sketch, and Notes 
 
 ^' ^''h^'^w^u''^' Courtship of Miles Stand- 
 
 ish. With Notes. 
 
 3. Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Stand- 
 
 famiHes!'*"^''"^''' f"''P''™'<= theatricals in schools and 
 
 ^' \^l,"' WM ^now-Bound and Among the 
 
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 5. Whittier's Mabel Martin, Cobbler Kee 
 
 s Schtr N'o?^:^ ^^^^^^ ''^^-^- -^--'^ ^^-^-ph- 
 
 6. Holmes's Grandmother's Story and 
 
 Other Poems. With Biographical Sketch and Notes. 
 
 7. Hawthorne's True Stories from New 
 
 P^r? l"'' wVtf n^' ,^^^°-^692: Grandfather's Chair, 
 rart i. With Questions. 
 
 8. Hawthorne's True Stories from New 
 
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 9. Hawthorne's True Stories from New 
 
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 10. Hawthorne's Biographical Stories : Ben. 
 
 jamin West Sir Isaac Newton, Samuel Johnson, Oliver 
 ^{ZZIl "^'"'"^ ^''"'^•"' ^"^^" C^"^^^"^' with 
 Other mmibers in preparation, 
 a^ss ^"^^ ^^^'''^f^o^^i Catalogue sent free to any 
 
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