{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4165", "width": "2537", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "^tto\\\\D-3Sottttti\\nAND OTHER AUTOBIOGRAPHIC POEMS\\nBY\\nJOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER\\nRIVERSIDE\\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY\\n1900", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0011.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "XWO COPIES HECEIVKD,\\nLibrary of Cofigr^ti^\\nOffiCQ of tli\u00c2\u00ab\\nMAY 2 8 1900\\nSECOND OOP Y.\\nCOPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN CO.\\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED\\n59128", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0012.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS\\nPAGB\\nEditor s Notb t vii\\nSnow-Bound A Winter Idyl .1\\nThe Barefoot !Boy 30\\nTo MY Old Schoolmaster .34\\nIn School-Days 40\\nMy Playmate 42\\nMemories 44\\nTelling the Bees .48\\nBurns 50\\nTo MY Sister 55\\nIchabod 66\\nThe Lost Occasion 59\\nThe Quaker of the Olden Time 62\\nThe Meeting 63\\nHampton Beach 71\\nA Sea Dream .74\\nSummer by the Lakeside 79\\nSunset on the Bearcamp 83\\nThe Last Walk in Autumn 86\\nAn Out-Door Reception 95\\nThe Tent on the Beach 99\\nThe Wreck of Rivermouth 108\\nThe Grave by the Lake 114\\nThe Brother of Mercy 126\\nThe Changeling 129\\nThe Maids of Attitash 134\\nKallundborg Church 140\\nThe Cable Hymn 144\\nThe Dead Ship of Harpswell 146\\nThe Palatine 149\\nAbraham Davenport 154\\nThe Worship of Nature .158", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0013.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "vi CONTENTS\\nEgo 160\\nMy Psalm 166\\nEesponse 169\\nAt Last 170\\nNotes 173", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0014.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "EDITORS NOTE\\nWHEN Mr. Whittier, a few years before his\\ndeath, supervised the definitive Riverside\\nedition of his Poems, he classified them under sev-\\neral heads, among them being Poems Subjective\\nand Reminiscent. In this group he placed Snow-\\nBound, Memories, Ego, The Barefoot Boy,\\nMy Psalm, In School-Days, Response, To\\nmy Sister, and others which were now disclosures\\nof himself with the frankness of a Friend bearing\\ntestimony, now vivid recollections of the early\\nyears of his life for as with poets in general,\\nMemory often beckoned Imagination to come and\\nsit in the cool shade of youth.\\nThough this section of his Poems is thus pur-\\nposely autobiographic in character, all of the divi-\\nsions, Personal, Anti-Slavery, Poems of Na-\\nture, Songs of Labor and Reform, Religious\\nPoems, Narrative and Legendary Poems, Oc-\\ncasional Poems, At Sundown, are characterized\\nby that strong personal element which has en-\\ndeared Whittier to readers because the man, genu-\\ninely humbly in spirit, was yet so at one with\\nGod, nature, and humanity that he spoke and sang\\nclearly in his own voice, never in falsetto, always\\nas one upon whom as on an instrument the spirit\\nof truth played from the lowest note to the top of\\nhis compass.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0015.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "viii EDITOR^S NOTE\\nNever was a poet so frank and so entirely void\\nof self-conceit. If sometimes he rambled on in\\nverse about the thoughts and feelings over which\\nhe brooded till one wondered that he should find\\nhimself so interesting, there never was a note of\\nvanity or even of the pride of humility. The f orth-\\nrightness of his song might sometimes be careless,\\nperhaps garrulous in form, but it was always genu-\\nine and not assumed certainly it was the farthest\\nremoved from dramatic concealment. These quali-\\nties make the man himself so evident in his verse\\nthat it is doubtful if his biography will ever be\\nmuch read; his life is so much more vividly told\\nin his own poems than it ever could be by any\\nother narrator, even than it could have been by\\nhimself in prose. Indeed, there is a curious cor-\\nroboration of this in Mr. Pickard s Life, There\\nthe biographer has collected some of Mr. Whit-\\ntier s letters, and how bald, how dry are these ex-\\npressions of himself beside the animated clear-\\nvoiced and liquid notes of his song\\nThe mere incidents of the poet s life, though he\\nlived in stirring times and was a most active instru-\\nment in creating the stir, are devoid of dramatic\\ncharacter. No wood-thrush could seem so con-\\ncealed from observation as this wood-thrush of\\nEssex. The simple household life he led, under\\nconditions often of physical weakness, was in\\nstrange contrast to the clarion bursts with which\\nin a spiritual sense he led forth the hosts to war.\\nNo, one must look for the real Whittier not in the\\nannals of Amesbury, but in the poems which re-", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0016.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "EDITOR S NOTE ix\\ncorded the life of a great spirit at once homely and\\nuniversal, sensitive to the lightest breath yet ani-\\nmated by heroic virtues, now domiciled by a coun-\\ntry hearth, now at large by ocean and mountain or\\nfighting on foot in the ranks of the great army\\nengaged in the Holy War.\\nThis volume is planned with the purpose of giv-\\ning an outline, in Whittier s own most character-\\nistic verse, of the life of this truthful poet. An\\noutline only it can be, yet by means of it one may\\ntrace in no uncertain phrase the New England\\nboy baptized by the spirit of the Society of Friends,\\nyet dominated by an imagination which made the\\nworld glow for him in color and sing with a mel-\\nody not to be drowned by the voices of wrath which\\nwere rising all g^bout him. In Snow-Bound and\\nin The Barefoot Boy the very details of his\\nhomely life are drawn with an accuracy rightly\\ncalled Flemish rather than pre-Raphaelite, because\\nof the rich human flavor attached to it. The\\npoems which follow touch upon deeper experiences,\\nscarcely uncovered except in verse, yet there almost\\nintimately revealed. In Burns one may read\\nthe poet s own confession of how the Scotch singer,\\nso akin to him in many ways, was the touchstone\\nby which he discovered the purity of the vein which\\nran through his own formation. The two poems\\non Webster are chosen out of all the number pro-\\nperly relating to the anti-slavery crusade, because\\nthey combine in so emphatic a manner that stern\\ntemper as of a Hebrew prophet with which Whittier\\nspoke his Thus saith the Lord, and that utter", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0017.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "X EDITOR S NOTE\\nabsence of vindictiveness which made him walk\\nunscathed in the midst of his own words of fire\\nbecause also they hint at that strong political tem-\\nper which gave the poet a singularly practical hold\\nupon the movements of his day.\\nIt is not an abrupt passage from Whittier the\\nanti-slavery prophet to Whittier the Friend and\\nseer, and then in a group of half a dozen poems\\none may catch some glimpse of that affectionate\\nknowledge of nature, bounded by the ocean on one\\nside and the mountains on the other, which shows,\\nalmost more surely than any other phase of his\\npoetical spirit, the large, universal temper of a man\\nwalking with the Lord God in the garden in the\\ncool of the day. But by a natural transition the\\nreader comes at once on this genuinely companion-\\nable being in happy converse with friends. In\\nactual life Whittier, shy and reserved, seemed to\\nmeet others most frankly out of doors. An Out-\\ndoor Reception is almost a chronicle of the many\\npicnics in which he engaged, but the mosaic The\\nTent on the Beach is as characteristic a picture\\nof the man Whittier in the midst of his congenial\\ncompanions, as Snow-Bound is of the boy in the\\nseclusion of home. The Tent on the Beach,\\nmoreover, offers a happy illustration of the story-\\ntelling faculty which was native to the poet, and\\nhas made him on the whole the nearest to the\\nprimitive ballad singer of any of our poets.\\nAnd so finally we may listen to the poet by him-\\nself in those reflective verses, mellow with an age\\ncalm and cheerful, that sing his serene creed and", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0018.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "EDITOR S NOTE xi\\nshow most directly and simply his place in the\\nchoir invisible. It would be easy to fill out this\\noutline at almost every point, but outline though\\nit is, here is a picture drawn by himself of the\\nmost human and artless and yet self-informed of\\nour poets.\\nThe head-notes to the poems are those prefixed\\nby the poet himself when collecting the Riverside\\nedition, and transferred by the editor, with occa-\\nsional slight enlargement or modification, when\\npreparing the Cambridge edition.\\nH. E. S.\\nChocorua, August 28, 1899.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0019.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0020.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nTHE inmates of the family at the Whittier\\nhomestead who are referred to in the poem\\nwere my father, mother, my brother and two\\nsisters, and my uncle and aunt, both unmarried.\\nIn addition, there was the district school master,\\nwho boarded with us. The not unfeared, half-\\nwelcome guest was Harriet Livermore, daughter\\nof Judge Livermore, of New Hampshire, a young\\nwoman of fine natural ability, enthusiastic, eccen-\\ntric, with slight control over her violent temper,\\nwhich sometimes made her religious profession\\ndoubtful. She was equally ready to exhort in\\nschool-house prayer-meetings and dance in a Wash-\\nington ball-room, while her father was a member\\nof Congress. She early embraced the doctrine of\\nthe Second Advent, and felt it her duty to proclaim\\nthe Lord s speedy coming. With this message she\\ncrossed the Atlantic and spent the greater part of\\na long life in travelling over Europe and Asia.\\nShe lived some time with Lady Hester Stanhope, a\\nwoman as fantastic and mentally strained as her-\\nseK, on the slope of Mt. Lebanon, but finally quar-\\nrelled with her in regard to two white horses with\\nred marks on their backs which suggested the idea\\nof saddles, on which her titled hostess expected to\\nride into Jerusalem with the Lord. A friend of", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0021.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "2 INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nmine found her, when quite an old woman, wan-\\ndering in Syria with a tribe of Arabs, who with\\nthe Oriental notion that madness is inspiration,\\naccepted her as their prophetess and leader. At\\nthe time referred to in Snow-Bound she was board-\\ning at the Rocks Village, about two miles from us.\\nIn my boyhood, in our lonely farm-house, we\\nhad scanty sources of information few books and\\nonly a small weekly newspaper. Our only annual\\nwas the Almanac. Under such circumstances\\nstory-telling was a necessary resource in the long\\nwinter evenings. My father when a young man\\nhad traversed the wilderness to Canada, and could\\ntell us of his adventures with Indians and wild\\nbeasts, and of his sojourn in the French villages.\\nMy uncle was ready with his record of hunting\\nand fishing and, it must be confessed, with sto-\\nries which he at least half believed, of witchcraft\\nand apparitions. My mother, who was born in\\nthe Indian-haunted region of Somersworth, New\\nHampshire, between Dover and Portsmouth, told\\nus of the inroads of the savages, and the narrow\\nescape of her ancestors. She described strange peo-\\nple who lived on the Piscataqua and Cocheco,\\namong whom was Bantam, the sorcerer. I have\\nin my possession the wizard s conjuring book,\\nwhich he solemnly opened when consulted. It is\\na copy of Cornelius Agrippa s Magic, printed in\\n1651, dedicated to Dr. Robert Child, who, like Mi-\\nchael Scott, had learned\\nthe art of glammorie\\nIn Padua beyond the sea,", "height": "3985", "width": "2341", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0022.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE 3\\nand who is famous in the annals of Massachusetts,\\nwhere he was at one time a resident, as the first\\nman who dared petition the General Court for lib-\\nerty of conscience. The full title of the book is\\nThree Books of Occult Philosophy, by Henry Cor-\\nnelius Agrippa, Knight, Doctor of both Laws, Coun-\\nsellor to Ccesar s Sacred Majesty and Judge of the\\nPrerogative Court,", "height": "3985", "width": "2341", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0023.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3946", "width": "2333", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0024.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND\\nA WINTEB. IDYL\\nTO THE MEMORY OF THE HOUSEHOLD IT DE-\\nSCRIBES\\nTHIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.\\nAs the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so\\nGood Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are augmented not\\nonly by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common\\nWood Fire and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark\\nspirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the same.\\nCor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy^ Book I. ch. v.\\nAnnounced by all the trumpets of the sky.\\nArrives the snow, and, driving o*er the fields,\\nSeems nowhere to alight the whited air\\nHides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,\\nAnd veils the farm-house at the garden s end.\\nThe sled and traveller stopped, the courier s feet\\nDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit\\nAround the radiant fireplace, enclosed\\nIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.\\nEmerson, The Snow Storm,\\nTHE sun that brief December day\\nEose cheerless over hills of gray.\\nAnd, darkly circled, gave at noon\\nA sadder light than waning moon.", "height": "3946", "width": "2333", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0025.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND\\nSlow tracing down the thickening sky\\nIts mute and ominous prophecy,\\nA portent seeming less than threat^\\nIt sank from sight before it set.\\nA chill no coat, however stout.\\nOf homespun stuff could quite shut out,\\nA hard, dull bitterness of cold.\\nThat checked, mid-vein, the circling race\\nOf life-blood in the sharpened face.\\nThe coming of the snow-storm told.\\nThe wind blew east we heard the roar\\nOf Ocean on his wintry shore.\\nAnd felt the strong pulse throbbing there\\nBeat with low rhythm our i^iland air.\\nMeanwhile we did our nightly chores,\\nBrought in the wood from out of doors,\\nLittered the stalls, and from the mows\\nBaked down the herd s-grass for the cows\\nHeard the horse whinnying for his corn\\nAnd, sharply clashing horn on horn,\\nImpatient down the stanchion rows\\nThe cattle shake their walnut bows\\nWhile, peering from his early perch\\nUpon the scaffold s pole of birch,\\nThe cock his crested helmet bent\\nAnd down his querulous challenge sent.\\nUnwarmed by any sunset light\\nThe gray day darkened into night,\\nA night made hoary with the swarm\\nAnd whirl-dance of the blinding storm,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0026.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 7\\nAs zigzag, wavering to and fro,\\nCrossed and recrossed the winged snow\\nAnd ere the early bedtime came\\nThe white drift piled the window-frame,\\nAnd through the glass the clothes-line posts\\nLooked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.\\nSo all night long the storm roared on\\nThe morning broke without a sun\\nIn tiny spherule traced with lines\\nOf Nature s geometric signs,\\nIn starry flake, and pellicle.\\nAll day the hoary meteor fell\\nAnd, when the second morning shone,\\nWe looked upon a world unknown.\\nOn nothing we could call our own.\\nAround the glistening wonder bent\\nThe blue walls of the firmament,\\nNo cloud above, no earth below,\\nA universe of sky and snow\\nThe old familiar sights of ours\\nTook marvellous shapes strange domes and\\ntowers\\nRose up where sty or corn-crib stood,\\nOr garden-wall, or belt of wood\\nA smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,\\nA fenceless drift what once was road\\nThe bridle-post an old man sat\\nWith loose-flung coat and high cocked hat\\nThe well-curb had a Chinese roof\\nAnd even the long sweep, high aloof,\\nIn its slant splendor, seemed to tell\\nOf Pisa s leaning miracle.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0027.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND\\nA prompt, decisive man, no breath\\nOur father wasted Boys, a path\\nWell pleased, (for when did farmer boy\\nCount such a summons less than joy\\nOur buskins on our feet we drew\\nWith mittened hands, and caps drawn low,\\nTo guard our necks and ears from snow,\\nWe cut the solid whiteness through.\\nAnd, where the drift was deepest, made\\nA tunnel walled and overlaid\\nWith dazzling crystal we had read\\nOf rare Aladdin s wondrous cave,\\nAnd to our own his name we gave.\\nWith many a wish the luck were ours\\nTo test his lamp s supernal powers.\\nWe reached the barn with merry din,\\nAnd roused the prisoned brutes within.\\nThe old horse thrust his long head outf\\nAnd grave with wonder gazed about\\nThe cock his lusty greeting said.\\nAnd forth his speckled harem led\\nThe oxen lashed their tails, and hooked.\\nAnd mild reproach of hunger looked\\nThe horned patriarch of the sheep.\\nLike Egypt s Amun roused from sleep,\\nShook his sage head with gesture mute,\\nAnd emphasized with stamp of foot.\\nAll day the gusty north-wind bore\\nThe loosening drift its breath before\\nLow circling round its southern zone.\\nThe sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0028.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND\\nNo church-bell lent its Christian tone\\nTo the savage air, no social smoke\\nCurled over woods of snow-hung oak.\\nA solitude made more intense\\nBy dreary-voiced elements,\\nThe shrieking of the mindless wind,\\nThe moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,\\nAnd on the glass the unmeaning beat\\nOf ghostly finger-tips of sleet.\\nBeyond the circle of our hearth\\nNo welcome sound of toil or mirth\\nUnbound the spell, and testified\\nOf human life and thought outside.\\nWe minded that the sharpest ear\\nThe buried brooklet could not hear,\\nThe music of whose liquid lip\\nHad been to us companionship,\\nAnd, in our lonely life, had grown\\nTo have an almost human tone.\\nAs night drew on, and, from the crest\\nOf wooded knolls that ridged the west,\\nThe sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank\\nFrom sight beneath the smothering bank,\\nWe piled, with care, our nightly stack\\nOf wood against the chimney-back,\\nThe oaken log, green, huge, and thick.\\nAnd on its top the stout back-stick\\nThe knotty f orestick laid apart.\\nAnd filled between with curious art\\nThe ragged brush then, hovering near,\\nWe watched the first red blaze appear,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0029.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "10 SNOW-BOUND\\nHeard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam\\nOn whitewashed wall and sagging beam,\\nUntil the old, rude-furnished room\\nBurst, flower-like, into rosy bloom\\nWhile radiant with a mimic flame\\nOutside the sparkling drift became.\\nAnd through the bare-boughed lilac-tree\\nOur own warm hearth seemed blazing free.\\nThe crane and pendent trammels showed.\\nThe Turks heads on the andirons glowed\\nWhile childish fancy, prompt to tell\\nThe meaning of the miracle,\\nWhispered the old rhyme Under the tree,\\nWhenjire outdoor burns merrily,\\nThere the witches are making tea,\\nThe moon above the eastern wood\\nShone at its full the hill-range stood\\nTransfigured in the silver flood,\\nIts blown snows flashing cold and keen,\\nDead white, save where some sharp ravine\\nTook shadow, or the sombre green\\nOf hemlocks turned to pitchy black\\nAgainst the whiteness at their back.\\nFor such a world and such a night\\nMost fitting that unwarming light,\\nWhich only seemed where er it fell\\nTo make the coldness visible.\\nShut in from all the world without.\\nWe sat the clean-winged hearth about,\\nContent to let the north-wind roar\\nIn bafiled rage at pane and door,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0030.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 11\\nWhile the red logs before us beat\\nThe frost-line back with tropic heat;\\nAnd ever, when a louder blast\\nShook beam and rafter as it passed,\\nThe merrier up its roaring draught\\nThe great throat of the chimney laughed\\nThe house-dog on his paws outspread\\nLaid to the fire his drowsy head,\\nThe cat s dark silhouette on the wall\\nA couchant tiger s seemed to fall\\nAnd, for the winter fireside meet.\\nBetween the andirons straddling feet,\\nThe mug of cider simmered slow,\\nThe apples sputtered in a row,\\nAnd, close at hand, the basket stood\\nWith nuts from brown October s wood. I I b\\nWhat matter how the night behaved?\\nWhat matter how the north-wind raved\\nBlow high, blow low, not all its snow\\nCould quench our hearth-fire s ruddy glow.\\nTime and Change with hair as gray\\nAs was my sire s that winter day,\\nHow strange it seems, with so much gone\\nOf life and love, to still live on\\nAh, brother only I and thou\\nAre left of all that circle now,\\nThe dear home faces whereupon\\nThat fitful firelight paled and shone.\\nHenceforward, listen as we will,\\nThe voices of that hearth are still\\nLook where we may, the wide earth o er,\\nThose lighted faces smile no more.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0031.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "12 SNOW-BOUND\\nWe tread the paths their feet have worn,\\nWe sit beneath their orchard trees,\\nWe hear, like them, the hum of bees\\nAnd rustle of the bladed corn\\nWe turn the pages that they read,\\nTheir written words we linger o er,\\nBut in the sun they cast no shade,\\nNo voice is heard, no sign is made,\\nNo step is on the conscious floor\\nYet Love will dream, and Faith will trust,\\n(Since He who knows our need is just,)\\nThat somehow, somewhere, meet we must.\\nAlas for him who never sees\\nThe stars shine through his cypress-trees\\nWho, hopeless, lays his dead away,\\nNor looks to see the breaking day\\nAcross the mournful marbles play\\nWho hath not learned, in hours of faith.\\nThe truth to flesh and sense unknown,\\nThat Life is ever lord of Death,\\nAnd Love can never lose its own\\nWe sped the time with stories old,\\nWrought puzzles out, and riddles told,\\nOr stammered from our school-book lore\\nThe Chief of Gambia s golden shore/\\nHow often since, when all the land\\nWas clay in Slavery s shaping hand.\\nAs if a far-blown trumpet stirred\\nThe languorous sin-sick air, I heard\\nDoes not the voice of reason cry,\\nClaim thejirst right which Nature gave.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0032.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 13\\nFrom the red scourge of bondage fly,\\nNor deign to live a burdened slave\\nOur father rode again his ride\\nOn Memphremagog s wooded side\\nSat down again to moose and samp\\nIn trapper s hut and Indian camp\\nLived o er the old idyllic ease\\nBeneath St. rran9ois hemlock-fcrees\\nAgain for him the moonlight shone\\nOn Norman cap and bodiced zone\\nAgain he heard the violin play\\nWhich led the village dance away.\\nAnd mingled in its merry whirl\\nThe grandam and the laughing girl.\\nOr, nearer home, our steps he led\\nWhere Salisbury s level marshes spread\\nMile-wide as flies the laden bee\\nWhere merry mowers, hale and strong,\\nSwept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along\\nThe low green prairies of the sea.\\nWe shared the fishing o:ff Boar s Head,\\nAnd round the rocky Isles of Shoals\\nThe hake-broil on the drift-wood coals\\nThe chowder on the sand-beach made,\\nDipped by the hungry, steaming hot.\\nWith spoons of clam-shell from the pot.\\nWe heard the tales of witchcraft old,\\nAnd dream and sign and marvel told\\nTo sleepy listeners as they lay\\nStretched idly on the salted hay.\\nAdrift along the winding shores.\\nWhen favoring breezes deigned to blow", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0033.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "14 SNOW-BOUND\\nThe square sail of the gundelow\\nAnd idle lay the useless oars.\\nOur mother, while she turned her wheel\\nOr run the new-knit stocking-heel,\\nTold how the Indian hordes came down\\nAt midnight on Cocheco town.\\nAnd how her own great-uncle bore\\nHis cruel scalp-mark to fourscore.\\nRecalling, in her fitting phrase,\\nSo rich and picturesque and free,\\n(The common unrhymed poetry\\nOf simple life and country ways,)\\nThe story of her early days,\\nShe made us welcome to her home\\nOld hearths grew wide to give us room\\nWe stole with her a frightened look\\nAt the gray wizard s conjuring-book,\\nThe fame whereof went far and wide\\nThrough all the simple country side\\nWe heard the hawks at twilight play,\\nThe boat-horn on Piscataqua,\\nThe loon s weird laughter far away\\nWe fished her little trout-brook, knew\\nWhat flowers in wood and meadow grew,\\nWhat sunny hillsides autumn-brown\\nShe climbed to shake the ripe nuts down.\\nSaw where in sheltered cove and bay\\nThe ducks black squadron anchored lay,\\nAnd heard the wild-geese calling loud\\nBeneath the gray November cloud.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0034.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 15\\nThen, haply, with a look more grave,\\nAnd soberer tone, some tale she gave\\nFrom painful Sewel s ancient tome,\\nBeloved in every Quaker home.\\nOf faith fire-winged by martyrdom.\\nOr Chalkley s Journal, old and quaint,\\nGentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint\\nWho, when the dreary calms prevailed,\\nAnd water-butt and bread-cask failed.\\nAnd cruel, hungry eyes pursued\\nHis portly presence mad for food.\\nWith dark hints muttered under breath\\nOf casting lots for life or death.\\nOffered, if Heaven withheld supplies,\\nTo be himself the sacrifice.\\nThen, suddenly, as if to save\\nThe good man from his living grave,\\nA ripple on the water grew,\\nA school of porpoise flashed in view.\\nTake, eat, he said, and be content;\\nThese fishes in my stead are sent\\nBy Him who gave the tangled ram\\nTo spare the child of Abraham/\\nOur uncle, innocent of books,\\nWas rich in lore of fields and brooks,\\nThe ancient teachers never dumb\\nOf nature^s unhoused lyceum.\\nIn moons and tides and weather wise,\\nHe read the clouds as prophecies.\\nAnd foul or fair could well divine,\\nBy many an occult hint and sign,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0035.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "16 SNOW-BOUNB\\nHolding the cunning-warded keys\\nTo all the woodcraft mysteries\\nHimself to IN ature s heart so near\\nThat all her voices in his ear\\nOf beast or bird had meanings clear,\\nLike Apollonius of old,\\nWho knew the tales the sparrows told,\\nOr Hermes who interpreted\\nWhat the sage cranes of Mlus said\\nA simple, guileless, childlike man.\\nContent to live where life began\\nStrong only on his native grounds.\\nThe little world of sights and sounds\\nWhose girdle was the parish bounds,\\nWhereof his fondly partial pride\\nThe common features magnified.\\nAs Surrey hills to mountains grew\\nIn White of Selborne s loving view,\\nHe told how teal and loon he shot,\\nAnd how the eagle s eggs he got.\\nThe feats on pond and river done,\\nThe prodigies of rod and gun\\nTill, warming with the tales he told,\\nForgotten was the outside cold.\\nThe bitter wind unheeded blew.\\nFrom ripening corn the pigeons flew,\\nThe partridge drummed i the wood, the mink\\nWent fishing down the river-brink.\\nIn fields with bean or clover gay.\\nThe woodchuck, like a hermit gray.\\nPeered from the doorway of his cell\\nThe muskrat plied the mason s trade,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0036.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 17\\nAnd tier by tier his mud-walls laid\\nAnd from the shagbark overhead\\nThe grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.\\nNext, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer\\nAnd voice in dreams I see and hear,\\nThe sweetest woman ever Fate\\nPerverse denied a household mate.\\nWho, lonely, homeless, not the less\\nFound peace in lovers unselfishness.\\nAnd welcome wheresoever she went,\\nA calm and gracious element.\\nWhose presence seemed the sweet income\\nAnd womanly atmosphere of home,\\nCalled up her girlhood memories.\\nThe huskings and the apple-bees.\\nThe sleigh-rides and the summer sails.\\nWeaving through all the poor details\\nAnd homespun warp of circumstance\\nA golden woof-thread of romance.\\nFor well she kept her genial mood\\nAnd simple faith of maidenhood\\nBefore her still a cloud-land lay,\\nThe mirage loomed across her way\\nThe morning dew, that dries so soon\\nWith others, glistened at her noon\\nThrough years of toil and soil and care.\\nFrom glossy tress to thin gray hair.\\nAll unprof aned she held apart\\nThe virgin fancies of the heart.\\nBe shame to him of woman born\\nWho hath for such but thought of scorn.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0037.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "18 SNOW-BOUND\\nThere, too, our elder sister plied\\nHer evening task the stand beside\\nA full, rich nature, free to trust,\\nTruthful and almost sternly just,\\nImpulsive, earnest, prompt to act.\\nAnd make her generous thought a fact,\\nKeeping with many a light disguise\\nThe secret of self-sacrifice.\\nO heart sore-tried thou hast the best\\nThat Heaven itself could give thee, rest,\\nRest from all bitter thoughts and things\\nHow many a poor one s blessing went\\nWith thee beneath the low green tent\\nWhose curtain never outward swings 1\\nAs one who held herself a part\\nOf all she saw, and let her heart\\nAgainst the household bosom lean,\\nUpon the motley-braided mat\\nOur youngest and our dearest sat.\\nLifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,\\nNow bathed in the unfading green\\nAnd holy peace of Paradise.\\nOh, looking from some heavenly hill.\\nOr from the shade of saintly palms,\\nOr silver reach of river calms.\\nDo those large eyes behold me still\\nWith me one little year ago\\nThe chill weight of the winter snow\\nFor months upon her grave has lain\\nAnd now, when summer south-winds blow\\nAnd brier and harebell bloom again,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0038.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 19\\nI tread the pleasant paths we trod,\\nI see the violet-sprinkled sod\\nWhereon she leaned, too frail and weak\\nThe hillside flowers she loved to seek,\\nYet following me where er I went\\nWith dark eyes full of love s content.\\nThe birds are glad the brier-rose fills\\nThe air with sweetness all the hills\\nStretch green to June s unclouded sky\\nBut still I wait with ear and eye\\nFor something gone which should be nigh,\\nA loss in all familiar things,\\nIn flower that blooms, and bird that sings.\\nAnd yet, dear heart remembering thee,\\nAm I not richer than of old\\nSafe in thy immortality.\\nWhat change can reach the wealth I hold\\nWhat chance can mar the pearl and gold\\nThy love hath left in trust with me\\nAnd while in life s late afternoon.\\nWhere cool and long the shadows grow,\\nI walk to meet the night that soon\\nShall shape and shadow overflow,\\nI cannot feel that thou art far.\\nSince near at need the angels are\\nAnd when the sunset gates unbar,\\nShall I not see thee waiting stand,\\nAnd, white against the evening star.\\nThe welcome of thy beckoning hand\\nBrisk wielder of the birch and rule.\\nThe master of the district school", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0039.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "20 SNOW-BOUND\\nHeld at the fire his favored place\\nIts warm glow lit a laughing face\\nFresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared\\nThe uncertain prophecy of beard.\\nHe teased the mitten-blinded cat,\\nPlayed cross-pins on my uncle s hat,\\nSang songs, and told us what befalls\\nIn classic Dartmouth s college halls.\\nBorn the wild Northern hills among,\\nFrom whence his yeoman father wrung\\nBy patient toil subsistence scant,\\nNot competence and yet not want,\\nHe early gained the power to pay\\nHis cheerful, self-reliant way\\nCould do:ff at ease his scholar s gown\\nTo peddle wares from town to town\\nOr through the long vacation s reach\\nIn lonely lowland districts teach,\\nWhere all the droll experience found\\nAt stranger hearths in boarding round.\\nThe moonlit skater s keen delight,\\nThe sleigh-drive through the frosty night,\\nThe rustic-party, with its rough\\nAccompaniment of blind-man s-buff.\\nAnd whirling-plate, and forfeits paid,\\nHis winter task a pastime made.\\nHappy the snow-locked homes wherein\\nHe tuned his merry violin.\\nOr played the athlete in the barn,\\nOr held the good dame s winding-yarn.\\nOr mirth-provoking versions told\\nOf classic legends rare and old,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0040.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 21\\nWherein the scenes of Greece and Eome\\nHad all the commonplace of home,\\nAnd little seemed at best the odds\\nTwixt Yankee pedlers and old gods\\nWhere Pindus-born Arachthus took\\nThe guise of any grist-mill brook,\\nAnd dread Olympus at his will\\nBecame a huckleberry hill.\\nA careless boy that night he seemed\\nBut at his desk he had the look\\nAnd air of one who wisely schemed.\\nAnd hostage from the future took\\nIn trained thought and lore of book.\\nLarge-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he\\nShall Freedom s young apostles be.\\nWho, following in War s bloody trail,\\nShall every lingering wrong assail\\nAll chains from limb and spirit strike,\\nUplift the black and white alike\\nScatter before their swift advance\\nThe darkness and the ignorance.\\nThe pride, the lust, the squalid sloth.\\nWhich nurtured Treason s monstrous growth,\\nMade murder pastime, and the hell\\nOf prison-torture possible\\nThe cruel lie of caste refute.\\nOld forms remould, and substitute\\nFor Slavery s lash the freeman s will.\\nFor blind routine, wise-handed skill\\nA school-house plant on every hill.\\nStretching in radiate nerve-lines thence\\nThe quick wires of intelligence", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0041.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "22 SNOW-BOUND\\nTill North and South together brought\\nShall own the same electric thought,\\nIn peace a common flag salute,\\nAnd, side by side in labor s free\\nAnd unresentf ul rivalry.\\nHarvest the fields wherein they fought.\\nAnother guest that winter night\\nFlashed back from lustrous eyes the light.\\nUnmarked by time, and yet not young.\\nThe honeyed music of her tongue\\nAnd words of meekness scarcely told\\nA nature passionate and bold.\\nStrong, self -concentred, spurning guide,\\nIts milder features dwarfed beside\\nHer unbent will s majestic pride.\\nShe sat among us, at the best,\\nA not unf eared, half -welcome guest,\\nKebuking with her cultured phrase\\nOur homeliness of words and ways.\\nA certain pard-like, treacherous grace\\nSwayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash,\\nLent the white teeth their dazzling flash\\nAnd under low brows, black with night.\\nRayed out at times a dangerous light\\nThe sharp heat-lightnings of her face\\nPresaging ill to him whom Fate\\nCondemned to share her love or hate.\\nA woman tropical, intense\\nIn thought and act, in soul and sense,\\nShe blended in a like degree\\nThe vixen and the devotee.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0042.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 23\\nRevealing with each freak or feint\\nThe temper of Petruchio s Kate,\\nThe raptures of Siena s saint.\\nHer tapering hand and rounded wrist\\nHad facile power to form a fist\\nThe warm, dark languish of her eyes\\nWas never safe from wrath s surprise.\\nBrows saintly calm and lips devout\\nKnew every change of scowl and pout;\\nAnd the sweet voice had notes more high\\nAnd shrill for social battle-cry.\\nSince then what old cathedral town\\nHas missed her pilgrim staff and gown,\\nWhat convent-gate has held its lock\\nAgainst the challenge of her knock\\nThrough Smyrna s plague-hushed thoroughfares,\\nUp sea-set Malta s rocky stairs,\\nGray olive slopes of hills that hem\\nThy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem,\\nOr startling on her desert throne\\nThe crazy Queen of Lebanon\\nWith claims fantastic as her own,\\nHer tireless feet have held their way\\nAnd still, unrestful, bowed, and gray,\\nShe watches under Eastern skies,\\nWith hope each day renewed and fresh.\\nThe Lord s quick coming in the flesh.\\nWhereof she dreams and prophesies\\nWhere er her troubled path may be,\\nThe Lord s sweet pity with her go 1", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0043.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "24 SNOW-BOUND\\nThe outward wayward life we see,\\nThe hidden springs we may not know.\\nNor is it given us to discern\\nWhat threads the fatal sisters spun,\\nThrough what ancestral years has run\\nThe sorrow with the woman born,\\nWhat forged her cruel chain of moods,\\nWhat set her feet in solitudes\\nAnd held the love within her mute,\\nWhat mingled madness in the blood,\\nA life-long discord and annoy.\\nWater of tears with oil of joy.\\nAnd hid within the folded bud\\nPerversities of flower and fruit.\\nIt is not ours to separate\\nThe tangled skein of will and fate,\\nTo show what metes and bounds should stand\\nUpon the soul s debatable land,\\nAnd between choice and Providence\\nDivide the circle of events\\nBut He who knows our frame is just,\\nMerciful and compassionate,\\nAnd full of sweet assurances\\nAnd hope for all the language is,\\nThat He remembereth we are dust\\nAt last the great logs, crumbling low,\\nSent out a dull and duller glow.\\nThe bull s-eye watch that hung in view,\\nTicking its weary circuit through.\\nPointed with mutely warning sign\\nIts black hand to the hour of nine.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0044.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 25\\nThat sign the pleasant circle broke\\nMy uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,\\nKnocked from its bowl the refuse gray,\\nX And laid it tenderly away\\nThen roused himself to safely cover\\nThe dull red brands with ashes over.\\nAnd while, with care, our mother laid\\nThe work aside, her steps she stayed\\nOne moment, seeking to express\\nHer grateful sense of happiness\\nFor food and shelter, warmth and health,\\nAnd love s contentment more than wealth,\\nWith simple wishes (not the weak,\\nVain prayers which no fulfilment seek.\\nBut such as warm the generous heart,\\nO er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)\\nThat none might lack, that bitter night.\\nFor bread and clothing, warmth and light.\\nWithin our beds awhile we heard\\nThe wind that round the gables roared,\\nWith now and then a ruder shock.\\nWhich made our very bedsteads rock.\\nWe heard the loosened clapboards tost.\\nThe board-nails snapping in the frost\\nAnd on us, through the unplastered wall,\\nFelt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.\\nBut sleep stole on, as sleep will do\\nWhen hearts are light and life is new\\nFaint and more faint the murmurs grew,\\nTill in the summer-land of dreams\\nThey softened to the sound of streams.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0045.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "26 SNOW-BOUND\\nLow stir of leaves, and dip of oars,\\nAnd lapsing waves on quiet shores.\\nNext morn we wakened with the shout\\nOf merry voices high and clear\\nAnd saw the teamsters drawing near\\nTo break the drifted highways out.\\nDown the long hillside treading slow\\nWe saw the half-buried oxen go,\\nShaking the snow from heads uptost,\\nTheir straining nostrils white with frost.\\nBefore our door the straggling train\\nDrew up, an added team to gain.\\nThe elders threshed their hands a-cold,\\nPassed, with the cider-mug, their jokes\\nFrom lip to lip the younger folks\\nDown the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled,\\nThen toiled again the cavalcade\\nO er windy hill, through clogged ravine,\\nAnd woodland paths that wound between\\nLow drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed.\\nFrom every barn a team afoot.\\nAt every house a new recruit.\\nWhere, drawn by Nature s subtlest law,\\nHaply the watchful young men saw\\nSweet doorway pictures of the curls\\nAnd curious eyes of merry girls.\\nLifting their hands in mock defence\\nAgainst the snow-ball s compliments.\\nAnd reading in each missive tost\\nThe charm with Eden never lost.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0046.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 27\\nWe heard once more the sleigh-bells sound\\nAnd, following where the teamsters led,\\nThe wise old Doctor went his round,\\nJust pausing at our door to say.\\nIn the brief autocratic way\\nOf one who, prompt at Duty s call,\\nWas free to urge her claim on all,\\nThat some poor neighbor sick abed\\nAt night our mother s aid would, need.\\nFor, one in generous thought and deed,\\nWhat mattered in the sufferer s sight.\\nThe Quaker matron s inward light.\\nThe Doctor s mail of Calvin s creed\\nAll hearts confess the saints elect\\nWho, twain in faith, in love agree.\\nAnd melt not in an acid sect\\nThe Christian pearl of charity\\nSo days went on a week had passed\\nSince the great world was heard from last.\\nThe Almanac we studied o er,\\nRead and reread our little store\\nOf books and pamphlets, scarce a score\\nOne harmless novel, mostly hid\\nFrom younger eyes, a book forbid.\\nAnd poetry, (or good or bad,\\nA single book was all we had,)\\nWhere Ellwood s meek, drab-skirted Muse,\\nA stranger to the heathen Nine,\\nSang, with a somewhat nasal whine,\\nThe wars of David and the Jews.\\nAt last the floundering carrier bore\\nThe village paper to our door.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0047.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "28 SNOW-BOUND\\nLo broadening outward as we read,\\nTo warmer zones the horizon spread;\\nIn panoramic length unrolled\\nWe saw the marvels that it told.\\nBefore us passed the painted Creeks,\\nAnd daft McGregor on his raids\\nIn Costa Rica s everglades.\\nAnd up Taygetos winding slow\\nRode Ypsilanti s Mainote Greeks,\\nA Turk s head at each saddle-bow I\\nWelcome to us its week-old news,\\nIts corner for the rustic Muse,\\nIts monthly gauge of snow and rain,\\nIts record, mingling in a breath\\nThe wedding bell and dirge of death\\nJest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale,\\nThe latest culprit sent to jail\\nIts hue and cry of stolen and lost,\\nIts vendue sales and goods at cost.\\nAnd traffic calling loud for gain.\\nWe felt the stir of hall and street,\\nThe pulse of life that round us beat\\nThe chill embargo of the snow\\nWas melted in the genial glow\\nWide swung again our ice-locked door,\\nAnd all the world was ours once more I\\nClasp, Angel of the backward look\\nAnd folded wings of ashen gray\\nAnd voice of echoes far away.\\nThe brazen covers of thy book\\nThe weird palimpsest old and vast,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0048.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "SNOW-BOUND 29\\nWherein thou hid st the spectral past\\nWhere, closely mingling, pale and glow\\nThe characters of joy and woe\\nThe monographs of outlived years,\\nOr smile-illumed or dim with tears,\\nGreen hills of life that slope to death,\\nAnd haunts of home, whose vistaed trees\\nShade off to mournful cypresses\\nWith the white amaranths underneath.\\nEven while I look, I can but heed\\nThe restless sands incessant fall.\\nImportunate hours that hours succeed.\\nEach clamorous with its own sharp need,\\nAnd duty keeping pace with all.\\nShut down and clasp the heavy lids\\nI hear again the voice that bids\\nThe dreamer leave his dream midway\\nFor larger hopes and graver fears\\nLife greatens in these later years,\\nThe century s aloe flowers to-day\\nYet, haply, in some lull of life.\\nSome Truce of God which breaks its strife,\\nThe worldling s eyes shall gather dew,\\nDreaming in throngful city ways\\nOf winter joys his boyhood knew\\nAnd dear and early friends the few\\nWho yet remain shall pause to view\\nThese Flemish pictures of old days\\nSit with me by the homestead hearth.\\nAnd stretch the hands of memory forth\\nTo warm them at the wood-fire s blaze 1", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0049.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "30 THE BAREFOOT BOY\\nAnd thanks untraced to lips unknown\\nShall greet me like the odors blown\\nFrom unseen meadows newly mown,\\nOr lilies floating in some pond,\\nWood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond\\nThe traveller owns the grateful sense\\nOf sweetness near, he knows not whence,\\nAnd, pausing, takes with forehead bare\\nThe benediction of the air.\\nTHE BAREFOOT BOY\\nBLESSINGS on thee, little man,\\nBarefoot boy, with cheek of tan 1\\nWith thy turned-up pantaloons,\\nAnd thy merry whistled tunes\\nWith thy red lip, redder still\\nKissed by strawberries on the hill\\nWith the sunshine on thy face.\\nThrough thy torn brim s jaunty grace\\nFrom my heart I give thee joy,\\nI was once a barefoot boy I\\nPrince thou art, the grown-up man\\nOnly is republican.\\nLet the million-doUared ride\\nBarefoot, trudging at his side,\\nThou hast more than he can buy\\nIn the reach of ear and eye,\\nOutward sunshine, inward joy\\nBlessings on thee, barefoot boy 1", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0050.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "THE BAREFOOT BOY 31\\nOh for boyhood s painless play,\\nSleep that wakes in laughing day,\\nHealth that mocks the doctor s rules,\\nKnowledge never learned of schools,\\nOf the wild bee s morning chase,\\nOf the wild-flower s time and place,\\nFlight of fowl and habitude\\nOf the tenants of the wood\\nHow the tortoise bears his shell.\\nHow the woodchuck digs his cell.\\nAnd the ground-mole sinks his well\\nHow the robin feeds her young.\\nHow the oriole s nest is hung\\nWhere the whitest lilies blow.\\nWhere the freshest berries grow.\\nWhere the ground-nut trails its vine.\\nWhere the wood-grape s clusters shine\\nOf the black wasp s cunning way,\\nMason of his walls of clay.\\nAnd the architectural plans\\nOf gray hornet artisans\\nFor, eschewing books and tasks,\\nNature answers all he asks\\nHand in hand with her he walks,\\nFace to face with her he talks,\\nPart and parcel of her joy,\\nBlessings on the barefoot boy\\nOh for boyhood s time of June,\\nCrowding years in one brief moon,\\nWhen all things I heard or saw,\\nMe, th^ir master, waited for.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0051.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "32 THE BAREFOOT BOY\\nI was rich in flowers and trees,\\nHumming-birds and honey-bees\\nFor my sport the squirrel played,\\nPlied the snouted mole his spade\\nFor my taste the blackberry cone\\nPurpled over hedge and stone\\nLaughed the brook for my delight\\nThrough the day and through the night,\\nWhispering at the garden wall,\\nTalked with me from fall to fall\\nMine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,\\nMine the walnut slopes beyond.\\nMine, on bending orchard trees,\\nApples of Hesperides\\nStill as my horizon grew.\\nLarger grew my riches too\\nAll the world I saw or knew\\nSeemed a complex Chinese toy,\\nFashioned for a barefoot boy I\\nOh for festal dainties spread,\\nLike my bowl of milk and bread\\nPewter spoon and bowl of wood,\\nOn the door-stone, gray and rude\\nO er me, like a regal tent.\\nCloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent.\\nPurple-curtained, fringed with gold.\\nLooped in many a wind-swung fold\\nWhile for music came the play\\nOf the pied frogs orchestra\\nAnd, to light the noisy choir,\\nLit the fly his lamp of fire.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0052.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "THE BAREFOOT BOY 33\\nI was monarch pomp and joy\\nWaited on the barefoot boy 1\\nCheerily, then, my little man,\\nLive and laugh, as boyhood can\\nThough the flinty slopes be hard,\\nStubble-speared the new-mown sward,\\nEvery morn shall lead thee through\\nFresh baptisms of the dew\\nEvery evening from thy feet\\nShall the cool wind kiss the heat\\nAll too soon these feet must hide\\nIn the prison cells of pride,\\nLose the freedom of the sod,\\nLike a colt s for work be shod,\\nMade to tread the mills of toil,\\nUp and down in ceaseless moil\\nHappy if their track be found\\nNever on forbidden ground\\nHappy if they sink not in\\nQuick and treacherous sands of sin.\\nAh that thou couldst know thy joy,\\nEre it passes, barefoot boy I", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0053.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER\\nAN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OP\\nHORACE\\nThese lines were addressed to my worthy friend Joshua\\nCoffin, teacher, historian, and antiquarian. He was one\\nof the twelve persons who with William Lloyd Garrison\\nformed the first anti-slavery society in New England.\\nOLD friend, kind friend lightly down\\nDrop time s snow-flakes on thy crown\\nNever be thy shadow less,\\nNever fail thy cheerfulness\\nCare, that kills the cat, may plough\\nWrinkles in the miser s brow,\\nDeepen envy s spiteful frown,\\nDraw the mouths of bigots down,\\nPlague ambition s dream, and sit\\nHeavy on the hypocrite.\\nHaunt the rich man s door, and ride\\nIn the gilded coach of pride\\nLet the fiend pass what can he\\nFind to do with such as thee\\nSeldom comes that evil guest\\nWhere the conscience lies at rest.\\nAnd brown health and quiet wit\\nSmiling on the threshold sit.\\nI, the urchin unto whom.\\nIn that smoked and dingy room,\\nWhere the district gave thee rule\\nO er its ragged winter school,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0054.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER 35\\nThou didst teach the mysteries\\nOf those weary A B C s,\\nWhere, to fill the every pause\\nOf thy wise and learned saws,\\nThrough the cracked and crazy wall\\nCame the cradle-rock and squall.\\nAnd the goodman s voice, at strife\\nWith his shrill and tipsy wife,\\nLuring us by stories old,\\nWith a comic unction told,\\nMore than by the eloquence\\nOf terse birchen arguments\\n(Doubtful gain, I fear), to look\\nWith complacence on a book\\nWhere the genial pedagogue\\nHalf forgot his rogues to flog.\\nCiting tale or apologue.\\nWise and merry in its drift\\nAs was Phaedrus twofold gift,\\nHad the little rebels known it,\\nMisum et prudentiam monet I\\nI, the man of middle years,\\nIn whose sable locks appears\\nMany a warning fleck of gray,\\nLooking back to that far day.\\nAnd thy primal lessons, feel\\nGrateful smiles my lips unseal.\\nAs, remembering thee, I blend\\nOlden teacher, present friend,\\nWise with antiquarian search.\\nIn the scrolls of State and Church\\nNamed on history s title-page.\\nParish-clerk and justice sage", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0055.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "36 TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER\\nFor tlie ferule s wholesome awe\\nWielding now the sword of law.\\nThreshing Time s neglected sheaves,\\nGathering up the scattered leaves\\nWhich the wrinkled sibyl cast\\nCareless from her as she passed,\\nTwofold citizen art thou,\\nFreeman of the past and now.\\nHe who bore thy name of old\\nMidway in the heavens did hold\\nOver Gibeon moon and sun\\nThou hast bidden them backward run\\nOf to-day the present ray\\nFlinging over yesterday\\nLet the busy ones deride\\nWhat I deem of right thy pride\\nLet the fools their treadmills grind,\\nLook not forward nor behind.\\nShuffle in and wriggle out,\\nVeer with every breeze about,\\nTurning like a windmill sail.\\nOr a dog that seeks his tail\\nLet them laugh to see thee fast\\nTabernacled in the Past,\\nWorking out with eye and lip\\nRiddles of old penmanship.\\nPatient as Belzoni there\\nSorting out, with loving care,\\nMummies of dead questions stripped\\nFrom their sevenfold manuscript", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0056.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER 37\\nDabbling, in their noisy way,\\nIn the puddles of to-day,\\nLittle know they of that vast\\nSolemn ocean of the past,\\nOn whose margin, wreck-bespread,\\nThou art walking with the dead,\\nQuestioning the stranded years.\\nWaking smiles by turns, and tears,\\nAs thou callest up again\\nShapes the dust has long overlain,\\nFair-haired woman, bearded man,,\\nCavalier and Puritan\\nIn an age whose eager view\\nSeeks but present things, and new,\\nMad for party, sect and gold,\\nTeaching reverence for the old.\\nOn that shore, with fowler s tact,\\nCoolly bagging fact on fact.\\nNaught amiss to thee can float.\\nTale, or song, or anecdote\\nVillage gossip, centuries old.\\nScandals by our grandams told.\\nWhat the pilgrim s table spread.\\nWhere he lived, and whom he wed.\\nLong-drawn bill of wine and beer\\nFor his ordination cheer,\\nOr the flip that wellnigh made\\nGlad his funeral cavalcade\\nWeary prose, and poet s lines.\\nFlavored by their age, like wines,\\nEulogistic of some quaint.\\nDoubtful, Puritanic saint", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0057.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "38 TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER\\nLays that quickened husking jigs,\\nJests that shook grave periwigs,\\nWhen the parson had his jokes\\nAnd his glass, like other folks\\nSermons that, for mortal hours,\\nTaxed our fathers* vital powers.\\nAs the long nineteenthlies poured\\nDownward from the sounding-board,\\nAnd, for fire of Pentecost,\\nTouched their beards December s frost.\\nTime is hastening on, and we\\nWhat our fathers are shall be,\\nShadow-shapes of memory\\nJoined to that vast multitude\\nWhere the great are but the good,\\nAnd the mind of strength shall prove\\nWeaker than the heart of love\\nPride of graybeard wisdom less\\nThan the infant s guilelessness,\\nAnd his song of sorrow more\\nThan the crown the Psalmist wore I\\nWho shall then, with pious zeal.\\nAt our moss-grown thresholds kneel,\\nFrom a stained and stony page\\nReading to a careless age.\\nWith a patient eye like thine.\\nProsing tale and limping line.\\nNames and words the hoary rime\\nOf the Past has made sublime\\nWho shall work for us as well\\nThe antiquarian s miracle", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0058.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER 39\\nWho to seeming life recall\\nTeacher grave and pupil small\\nWho shall give to thee and me\\nFreeholds in futurity?\\nWell, whatever lot be mine,\\nLong and happy days be thine,\\nEre thy full and honored age\\nDates of time its latest page\\nSquire for master, State for school,\\nWisely lenient, live and rule\\nOver grown-up knave and rogue\\nPlay the watchful pedagogue\\nOr, while pleasure smiles on duty,\\nAt the call of youth and beauty,\\nSpeak for them the spell of law\\nWhich shall bar and bolt withdraw,\\nAnd the flaming sword remove\\nFrom the Paradise of Love.\\nStill, with undimmed eyesight, pore\\nAncient tome and record o er\\nStill thy week-day lyrics croon,\\nPitch in church the Sunday tune,\\nShowing something, in thy part.\\nOf the old Puritanic art.\\nSinger after Sternhold s heart 1\\nIn thy pew, for many a year.\\nHomilies from Oldbug hear.\\nWho to wit like that of South,\\nAnd the Syrian s golden mouth.\\nDoth the homely pathos add\\nWhich the pilgrim preachers had", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0059.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "40 IN SCHOOL-DAYS\\nBreaking, like a child at play,\\nGilded idols of the day,\\nCant of knave and pomp of fool\\nTossing with his ridicule,\\nYet, in earnest or in jest,\\nEver keeping truth abreast.\\nAnd, when thou art called, at last,\\nTo thy townsmen of the past,\\nNot as stranger shalt thou come\\nThou shalt find thyself at home\\nWith the little and the big,\\nWoollen cap and periwig.\\nMadam in her high-laced rufp,\\nGoody in her home-made stuff,\\nWise and simple, rich and poor,\\nThou hast known them all before\\nIN SCHOOL-DAYS\\nSTILL sits the school-house by the road,\\nA ragged beggar sleeping\\nAround it still the sumachs grow.\\nAnd blackberry-vines are creeping.\\nWithin, the master s desk is seen,\\nDeep scarred by raps official\\nThe warping floor, the battered seats.\\nThe jack-knife s carved initial\\nThe charcoal frescos on its wall\\nIts door s worn sill, betraying\\nThe feet that, creeping slow to school,\\nWent storming out to playing", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0060.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "m SCHOOL-DAYS 41\\nLong years ago a winter sun\\nShone over it at setting\\nLit up its western window-panes,\\nAnd low eaves icy fretting.\\nIt touched the tangled golden curls,\\nAnd brown eyes full of grieving,\\nOf one who still her steps delayed\\nWhen all the school were leaving.\\nFor near her stood the little boy\\nHer childish favor singled\\nHis cap pulled low upon a face\\nWhere pride and shame were mingled.\\nPushing with restless feet the snow\\nTo right and left, he lingered\\nAs restlessly her tiny hands\\nThe blue-checked apron fingered.\\nHe saw her lift her eyes he felt\\nThe soft hand s light caressing.\\nAnd heard the tremble of her voice,\\nAs if a fault confessing.\\nI m sorry that I spelt the word\\nI hate to go above you.\\nBecause, the brown eyes lower fell,\\nBecause, you see, I love you\\nStill memory to a gray-haired man\\nThat sweet child-face is showing.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0061.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "42 MY PLAYMATE\\nDear girl the grasses on her grave\\nHave forty years been growing\\nHe lives to learn, in life s hard school,\\nHow few who pass above him\\nLament their triumph and his loss,\\nLike her, because they love him.\\nMY PLAYMATE\\nTHE pines were dark on Ramoth hill,\\nTheir song was soft and low\\nThe blossoms in the sweet May wind\\nWere falling like the snow.\\nThe blossoms drifted at our feet,\\nThe orchard birds sang clear\\nThe sweetest and the saddest day\\nIt seemed of all the year.\\nFor, more to me than birds or flowers,\\nMy playmate left her home.\\nAnd took with her the laughing spring.\\nThe music and the bloom.\\nShe kissed the lips of kith and kin,\\nShe laid her hand in mine\\nWhat more could ask the bashful boy\\nWho fed her father s kine\\nShe left us in the bloom of May;\\nThe constant years told o er", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0062.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "MY PLAYMATE 43\\nTheir seasons with as sweet May morns,\\nBut she came back no more.\\nI walk, with noiseless feet, the round\\nOf uneventful years\\nStill o er and o er I sow the spring\\nAnd reap the autumn ears.\\nShe lives where all the golden year\\nHer summer roses blow\\nThe dusky children of the sun\\nBefore her come and go.\\nThere haply with her jewelled hands\\nShe smooths her silken gown,\\nNo more the homespun lap wherein\\nI shook the walnuts down.\\nThe wild grapes wait us by the brook,\\nThe brown nuts on the hill.\\nAnd still the May-day flowers make sweet\\nThe woods of FoUymill.\\nThe lilies blossom in the pond,\\nThe bird builds in the tree.\\nThe dark pines sing on Ramoth hill\\nThe slow song of the sea.\\nI wonder if she thinks of them,\\nAnd how the old time seems,\\nIf ever the pines of Ramoth wood\\nAre sounding in her dreams.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0063.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "44 MEMORIES\\nI see her face, I hear her voice\\nDoes she remember mine\\nAnd what to her is now the boy\\nWho fed her f ather^s kine\\nWhat cares she that the orioles build\\nFor other eyes than ours,\\nThat other hands with nuts are filled,\\nAnd other laps with flowers\\nO playmate in the golden time\\nOur mossy seat is green.\\nIts fringing violets blossom yet,\\nThe old trees o er it lean.\\nThe winds so sweet with birch and fern\\nA sweeter memory blow\\nAnd there in spring the veeries sing\\nThe song of long ago.\\nAnd still the pines of Ramoth wood\\nAre moaning like the sea,\\nThe moaning of the sea of change\\nBetween myself and thee I\\nMEMORIES\\nIt was not without thought and deliberation, Whittier s\\nbiographer writes, that in 1888 he directed this poem to be\\nplaced at the head of his Poems Subjective and Reminiscent.\\nHe had never before publicly acknowledged how much of\\nhis heart was wrapped up in this delightful play of poetic", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0064.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "MEMORIES 45\\nfancy. The poem was written in 1841, and although the\\nromance it embalms lies far back of this date, possibly there\\nis a heart still beating which fully understands its meaning.\\nThe biographer can do no more than make this suggestion,\\nwhich has the sanction of the poet s explicit word. To a\\nfriend who told him that Memories was her favorite poem,\\nhe said, I love it too but I hardly knew whether to pub-\\nlish it, it was so personal and near my heart.\\nA BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,\\nWith step as light as summer air,\\nEyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,\\nShadowed by many a careless curl\\nOf unconfined and flowing hair\\nA seeming child in everything,\\nSave thoughtful brow and ripening charms,\\nAs Nature wears the smile of Spring\\nWhen sinking into Summer s arms.\\nA mind rejoicing in the light\\nWhich melted through its graceful bower,\\nLeaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright.\\nAnd stainless in its holy white.\\nUnfolding like a morning flower\\nA heart, which, like a fine-toned lute.\\nWith every breath of feeling woke.\\nAnd, even when the tongue was mute,\\nFrom eye and lip in music spoke.\\nHow thrills once more the lengthening chain\\nOf memory, at the thought of thee\\nOld hopes which long in dust have lain.\\nOld dreams, come thronging back again,\\nAnd boyhood lives again in me", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0065.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "46 MEMORIES\\nI feel its glow upon my cheek,\\nIts fulness of the heart is mine,\\nAs when I leaned to hear thee speak,\\nOr raised my doubtful eye to thine.\\nI hear again thy low replies,\\nI feel thy arm within my own,\\nAnd timidly again uprise\\nThe fringed lids of hazel eyes.\\nWith soft brown tresses overblown.\\nAh memories of sweet summer eves.\\nOf moonlit wave and willowy way.\\nOf stars and flowers, and dewy leaves.\\nAnd smiles and tones more dear than they\\nEre this, thy quiet eye hath smiled\\nMy picture of thy youth to see.\\nWhen, half a woman, half a child,\\nThy very artlessness beguiled.\\nAnd folly s self seemed wise in thee\\nI too can smile, when o er that hour\\nThe lights of memory backward stream,\\nYet feel the while that manhood s power\\nIs vainer than my boyhood s dream.\\nYears have passed on, and left their trace,\\nOf graver care and deeper thought\\nAnd unto me the calm, cold face\\nOf manhood, and to thee the grace\\nOf woman s pensive beauty brought.\\nMore wide, perchance, for blame than praise,\\nThe school-boy s humble name has flown", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0066.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "MEMORIES 47\\nThine, in the green and quiet ways\\nOf unobtrusive goodness known.\\nAnd wider yet in thought and deed\\nDiverge our pathways, one in youth\\nThine the Genevan s sternegt creed,\\nWhile answers to my spirit s need\\nThe Derby dalesman s simple truth.\\nFor thee, the priestly rite and prayer,\\nAnd holy day, and solemn psalm\\nFor me,^ the silent reverence where\\nMy brethren gather, slow and calm.\\nYet hath thy spirit left on me\\nAn impress Time has worn not out,\\nAnd something of myself in thee,\\nA shadow from the past, I see.\\nLingering, even yet, thy way about\\nNot wholly can the heart unlearn\\nThat lesson of its better hours,\\nNot yet has Time s dull footstep worn\\nTo common dust that path of flowers.\\nThus, while at times before our eyes\\nThe shadows melt, and fall apart.\\nAnd, smiling through them, round us lies\\nThe warm light of our morning skies,\\nThe Indian Summer of the heart I\\nIn secret sympathies of mind.\\nIn founts of feeling which retain\\nTheir pure, fresh flow, we yet may find\\nOur early dreams not wholly vain", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0067.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "TELLING THE BEES\\nA remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country,\\nformerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England.\\nOn the death of a member of the family, the bees were\\nat once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in\\nmourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary\\nto prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seek-\\ning a new home. [The scene is minutely that of the Whit-\\ntier homestead.]\\nHERE is the place right over the hill\\nRuns the path I took\\nYou can see the gap in the old wall still,\\nAnd the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.\\nThere is the house, with the gate red-barred,\\nAnd the poplars tall\\nAnd the barn s brown length, and the cattle-yard,\\nAnd the white horns tossing above the wall.\\nThere are the beehives ranged in the sun\\nAnd down by the brink\\nOf the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o errun,\\nPansy and daffodil, rose and pink.\\nA year has gone, as the tortoise goes,\\nHeavy and slow\\nAnd the same rose blows, and the same sun glows.\\nAnd the same brook sings of a year ago.\\nThere s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze\\nAnd the June sun warm", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0068.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "TELLING THE BEES 49\\nTangles his wings of fire in the trees,\\nSetting, as then, over Fernside farm.\\nI mind me how with a lover s care\\nFrom my Sunday coat\\nI brushed oif the burrs, and smoothed my hair,\\nAnd cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.\\nSince we parted, a month had passed,\\nTo love, a year\\nDown through the beeches I looked at last\\nOn the little red gate and the well-sweep near.\\nI can see it all now, the slantwise rain\\nOf light through the leaves.\\nThe sundown s blaze on her window-pane,\\nThe bloom of her roses under the eaves.\\nJust the same as a month before,\\nThe house and the trees.\\nThe barn s brown gable, the vine by the door,\\nNothing changed but the hives of bees.\\nBefore them, under the garden wall,\\nForward and back.\\nWent drearily singing the chore-girl small,\\nDraping each hive with a shred of black.\\nTrembling, I listened the summer sun\\nHad the chill of snow\\nFor I knew she was telling the bees of one\\nGrone on the journey we all must go", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0069.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "60 BURNS\\nThen I said to myself, My Mary weeps\\nFor the dead to-day\\nHaply her blind old grandsire sleeps\\nThe fret and the pain of his age away.\\nBut her dog whined low on the doorway sill,\\nWith his cane to his ehin,\\nThe old man sat and the chore-girl still\\nSung to the bees stealing out and in.\\nAnd the song she was singing ever since\\nIn my ear sounds on\\nStay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence I\\nMistress Mary is dead and gone\\nBURNS\\nON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN\\nBLOSSOM\\nNO more these simple flowers belong\\nTo Scottish maid and lover\\nSown in the common soil of song,\\nThey bloom the wide world over.\\nIn smiles and tears, in sun and showers,\\nThe minstrel and the heather,\\nThe deathless singer and the flowers\\nHe sang of live together.\\nWild heather-bells and Robert Burns\\nThe moorland flower and peasant I", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0070.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "BURNS 51\\nHow, at their mention, memory turns\\nHer pages old and pleasant\\nThe gray sky wears again its gold\\nAnd purple of adorning,\\nAnd manhood s noonday shadows hold\\nThe dews of boyhood s morning.\\nThe dews that washed the dust and soil\\nFrom off the wings of pleasure.\\nThe sky, that flecked the ground of toil\\nWith golden threads of leisure.\\nI call to mind the summer day,\\nThe early harvest mowing,\\nThe sky with sun and clouds at play,\\nAnd flowers with breezes blowing.\\nI hear the blackbird in the corn,\\nThe locust in the haying\\nAnd, like the fabled hunter s horn,\\nOld tunes my heart is playing.\\nHow oft that day, with fond delay,\\nI sought the maple s shadow,\\nAnd sang with Burns the hours away.\\nForgetful of the meadow 1\\nBees hummed, birds twittered, overhead\\nI heard the squirrels leaping.\\nThe good dog listened while I read,\\nAnd wagged his tail in keeping.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0071.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "52 BURNS\\nI watched him while in sportive mood\\nI read The Twa Dogs story,\\nAnd half believed he understood\\nThe poet s allegory.\\nSweet day, sweet songs The golden hours\\nGrew brighter for that singing,\\nFrom brook and bird and meadow flowers\\nA dearer welcome bringing.\\nNew light on home-seen Nature beamed,\\nNew glory over Woman\\nAnd daily life and duty seemed\\nNo longer poor and common.\\nI woke to find the simple truth\\nOf fact and feeling better\\nThan all the dreams that held my youth\\nA still repining debtor\\nThat Nature gives her handmaid, Art,\\nThe themes of sweet discoursing\\nThe tender idyls of the heart\\nIn every tongue rehearsing.\\nWhy dream of lands of gold and pearl,\\nOf loving knight and lady.\\nWhen farmer boy and barefoot girl\\nWere wandering there already\\nI saw through all familiar things\\nThe romance underlying", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0072.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "BURNS 53\\nThe joys and griefs that plume the wings\\nOf Fancy skyward flying.\\nI saw the same blithe day return,\\nThe same sweet fall of even,\\nThat rose on wooded Craigie-burn,\\nAnd sank on crystal Devon.\\nI matched with Scotland s heathery hills\\nThe sweetbrier and the clover\\nWith Ayr and Doon, my native rills,\\nTheir wood hymns chanting over.\\nO er rank and pomp, as he had seen,\\nI saw the Man uprising\\nNo longer common or unclean,\\nThe child of God s baptizing\\nWith clearer eyes I saw the worth\\nOf life among the lowly\\nThe Bible at his Cotter s hearth\\nHad made my own more holy.\\nAnd if at times an evil strain,\\nTo lawless love appealing,\\nBroke in upon the sweet refrain\\nOf pure and healthful feeling,\\nIt died upon the eye and ear,\\nNo inward answer gaining\\nNo heart had I to see or hear\\nThe discord and the staining.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0073.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "54 BURNS\\nLet those wlio never erred forget\\nHis worth, in vain bewailings\\nSweet Soul of Song I own my debt\\nUncancelled by his failings\\nLament who will the ribald line\\nWhich tells his lapse from duty,\\nHow kissed the maddening lips of wine\\nOr wanton ones of beauty\\nBut think, while falls that shade between\\nThe erring one and Heaven,\\nThat he who loved like Magdalen,\\nLike her may be forgiven.\\nNot his the song whose thunderous chime\\nEternal echoes render\\nThe mournful Tuscan s haunted rhyme,\\nAnd Milton s starry splendor I\\nBut who his human heart has laid\\nTo Nature s bosom nearer\\nWho sweetened toil like him, or paid\\nTo love a tribute dearer\\nThrough all his tuneful art, how strong\\nThe human feeling gushes\\nThe very moonlight of his song\\nIs warm with smiles and blushes\\nGive lettered pomp to teeth of Time,\\nSo Bonnie Doon but tarry\\nBlot out the Epic s stately rhyme,\\nBut spare his Highland Mary", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0074.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "TO MY SISTER\\nWITH A COPY OF THE SUPERNATURALISM OF\\nNEW ENGLAND\\nThe work referred to was a series of papers under this\\ntitle, contributed to the Democratic Review and afterward\\ncollected into a volume, in which I noted some of the super-\\nstitions and folklore prevalent in New England. The\\nvolume has not been kept in print, but most of its contents\\nare distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies\\n[now scattered in volumes v. and vi. of the Riverside edi-\\ntion]\\nDEAR Sister I while the wise and sage\\nTurn coldly from my playful page,\\nAnd count it strange that ripened age\\nShould stoop to boyhood s folly\\nI know that thou wilt judge aright\\nOf all which makes the heart more light,\\nOr lends one star-gleam to the night\\nOf clouded Melancholy.\\nAway with weary cares and themes\\nSwing wide the moonlit gate of dreams I\\nLeave free once more the land which teems\\nWith wonders and romances\\nWhere thou, with clear discerning eyes,\\nShalt rightly read the truth which lies\\nBeneath the quaintly masking guise\\nOf wild and wizard fancies.\\nLo once again our feet we set\\nOn still green wood-paths, twilight wet,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0075.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "56 ICHABOD\\nBy lonely brooks, whose waters fret\\nThe roots of spectral beeches\\nAgain the hearth fire glimmers o er\\nHome s whitewashed wall and painted floor,\\nAnd young eyes widening to the lore\\nOf faery-folks and witches.\\nDear heart the legend is not vain\\nWhich lights that holy hearth again,\\nAnd calling back from care and pain,\\nAnd death s funereal sadness.\\nDraws round its old familiar blaze\\nThe clustering groups of happier days,\\nAnd lends to sober manhood s gaze\\nA glimpse of childish gladness.\\nAnd, knowing how my life hath been\\nA weary work of tongue and pen,\\nA long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,\\nThou wilt not chide my turning\\nTo con, at times, an idle rhyme.\\nTo pluck a flower from childhood s clime,\\nOr listen, at Life s noonday chime.\\nFor the sweet bells of Morning\\nICHABOD\\nThis poem was the outcome of the surprise and grief and\\nforecast of evil consequences which I felt on reading the\\nseventh of March speech of Daniel Webster in support of\\nthe compromise, and the Fugitive Slave Law. t^o parti-\\nsan or personal enmity dictated it. On the contrary my", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0076.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "ICHABOD 57\\nadmiration of the splendid personality and intellectual\\npower of the great Senator was never stronger than when I\\nlaid down his speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of\\nmy life, penned my protest. I saw, as I wrote, with painful\\nclearness its sure results, the Slave Power arrogant and\\ndefiant, strengthened and encouraged to carry out its scheme\\nfor the extension of its baleful system, or the dissolution of\\nthe Union, the guaranties of personal liberty in the free\\nStates broken down, and the whole country made the hunt-\\ning-ground of slave-catchers. In the horror of such a vision,\\nso soon fearfully fulfilled, if one spoke at all, he could only\\nspeak in tones of stern and sorrowful rebuke.\\nBut death softens all resentments, and the consciousness\\nof a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies\\nthe severity of judgment. Years after, in The Lost Occa-\\nsion, I gave utterance to an almost universal regret that the\\ngreat statesman did not live to see the flag which he loved\\ntrampled under the feet of Slavery, and, in view of this de-\\nsecration, make his last days glorious in defence of Liberty\\nand Union, one and inseparable.\\nSO fallen I so lost the light withdrawn\\nWhich once he wore\\nThe glory from his gray hairs gone\\nForevermore\\nEevile him not, the Tempter hath\\nA snare for all\\nAnd pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,\\nBefit his fall\\nOh, dumb be passion s stormy rage,\\nWhen he who might\\nHave lighted up and led his age.\\nFalls back in night.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0077.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "58 ICHABOD\\nScorn would the angels laugh, to mark\\nA bright soul driven,\\nFiend-goaded, down the endless dark,\\nFrom hope and heaven\\nLet not the land once proud of him\\nInsult him now.\\nNor brand with deeper shame his dim,\\nDishonored brow.\\nBut let its humbled sons, instead,\\nFrom sea to lake,\\nA long lament, as for the dead.\\nIn sadness make.\\nOf all we loved and honored, naught\\nSave power remains\\nA fallen angePs pride of thought,\\nStill strong in chains.\\nAll else is gone from those great eyes\\nThe soul has fled\\nWhen faith is lost, when honor dies,\\nThe man is dead\\nThen, pay the reverence of old days\\nTo his dead fame\\nWalk backward, with averted gaze.\\nAnd hide the shame", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0078.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "THE LOST OCCASION\\nSOME die too late and some too soon,\\nAt early morning, heat of noon,\\nOr the chill evening twilight. Thou,\\nWhom the rich heavens did so endow\\nWith eyes of power and Jove s own brow.\\nWith all the massive strength that fills\\nThy home-horizon s granite hills.\\nWith rarest gifts of heart and head\\nFrom manliest stock inherited,\\nNew England s stateliest type of man.\\nIn port and speech Olympian\\nWhom no one met, at first, but took\\nA second awed and wondering look\\n(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece\\nOn Phidias unveiled masterpiece)\\nWhose words in simplest homespun clad,\\nThe Saxon strength of Caedmon s had.\\nWith power reserved at need to reach\\nThe Roman forum s loftiest speech.\\nSweet with persuasion, eloquent\\nIn passion, cool in argument.\\nOr, ponderous, falling on thy foes\\nAs fell the Norse god s hammer blows.\\nCrushing as if with Talus flail\\nThrough Error s logic-woven mail,\\nAnd failing only when they tried\\nThe adamant of the righteous side,\\nThou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved^\\nOf old friends, by the new deceived,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0079.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "60 THE LOST OCCASION\\nToo soon for us, too soon for thee,\\nBeside thy lonely Northern sea,\\nWhere long and low the marsh-lands spread,\\nLaid wearily down thy august head.\\nThou shouldst have lived to feel below\\nThy feet Disunion s fierce upthrow\\nThe late-sprung mine that underlaid\\nThy sad concessions vainly made.\\nThou shouldst have seen from Sumter s wall\\nThe star-flag of the Union fall,\\nAnd armed rebellion pressing on\\nThe broken lines of Washington I\\nNo stronger voice than thine had then\\nCalled out the utmost might of men,\\nTo make the Union s charter free\\nAnd strengthen law by liberty.\\nHow had that stern arbitrament\\nTo thy gray age youth s vigor lent.\\nShaming ambition s paltry prize\\nBefore thy disillusioned eyes\\nBreaking the spell about thee wound\\nLike the green withes that Samson bound\\nRedeeming in one effort grand.\\nThyself and thy imperilled land\\nAh, cruel fate, that closed to thee,\\nO sleeper by the Northern sea,\\n.The gates of opportunity 1\\nGod fills the gaps of human need,\\nEach crisis brings its word and deed.\\nWise men and strong we did not lack\\nBut still, with memory turning back.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0080.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "THE LOST OCCASION 61\\nIn the dark hours we thought of thee,\\nAnd thy lone grave beside the sea.\\nAbove that grave the east winds blow,\\nAnd from the marsh-lands drifting slow\\nThe sea-fog comes, with evermore\\nThe wave-wash of a lonely shore,\\nAnd sea-bird s melancholy cry,\\nAs Nature fain would typify\\nThe sadness of a closing scene,\\nThe loss of that which should have been.\\nBut, where thy native mountains bare\\nTheir foreheads to diviner air,\\nFit emblem of enduring fame.\\nOne lofty summit keeps thy name.\\nFor thee the cosmic forces did\\nThe rearing of that pyramid.\\nThe prescient ages shaping with\\nFire, flood, and frost thy monolith.\\nSunrise and sunset lay thereon\\nWith hands of light their benison,\\nThe stars of midnight pause to set\\nTheir jewels in its coronet.\\nAnd evermore that mountain mass\\nSeems climbing from the shadowy pass\\nTo light, as if to manifest\\nThy nobler self, thy life at best I", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0081.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME\\nTHE Quaker of the olden time I\\nHow calm and firm and true,\\nUnspotted by its wrong and crime,\\nHe walked the dark earth through.\\nThe lust of power, the love of gain,\\nThe thousand lures of sin\\nAround him, had no power to stain\\nThe purity within.\\nWith that deep insight which detects\\nAll great things in the small.\\nAnd knows how each man s life affects\\nThe spiritual life of all.\\nHe walked by faith and not by sight,\\nBy love and not by law\\nThe presence of the wrong or right\\nHe rather felt than saw.\\nHe felt that wrong with wrong partakes,\\nThat nothing stands alone.\\nThat whoso gives the motive, makes\\nHis brother s sin his own.\\nAnd, pausing not for doubtful choice\\nOf evils great or small.\\nHe listened to that inward voice\\nWhich called away from all.\\nO Spirit of that early day.\\nSo pure and strong and true,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0082.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING 63\\nBe with us in the narrow way\\nOur faithful fathers knew.\\nGive strength the evil to forsake,\\nThe cross of Truth to bear,\\nAnd love and reverent fear to make\\nOur daily lives a prayer 1\\nTHE MEETING\\nThe two speakers in the meeting referred to in this poem\\nwere Avis Keene, whose very presence was a benediction, a\\nwoman lovely in spirit and person, whose words seemed a\\nmessage of love and tender concern to her hearers and Sibyl\\nJones, whose inspired eloquence and rare spirituality im-\\npressed all who knew her. In obedience to her apprehended\\nduty she made visits of Christian love to various parts of\\nEurope, and to the West Coast of Africa and Palestine.\\nTHE elder folk shook hands at last,\\nDown seat by seat the signal passed.\\nTo simple ways like ours unused,\\nHalf solemnized and half amused,\\nWith long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest\\nHis sense of glad relief expressed.\\nOutside, the hills lay warm in sun\\nThe cattle in the meadow-run\\nStood half-leg deep a single bird\\nThe green repose above us stirred.\\nWhat part or lot have you, he said,\\nIn these dull rites of drowsy-head\\nIs silence worship Seek it where\\nIt soothes with dreams the summer air,\\nNot in this close and rude-benched hall,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0083.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "64 THE MEETIIsrG\\nBut where soft lights and shadows fall,\\nAnd all the slow, sleep-walking hours\\nGlide soundless over grass and flowers\\nFrom time and place and form apart.\\nIts holy ground the human heart,\\nNor ritual-bound nor temple ward\\nWalks the free spirit of the Lord\\nOur common Master did not pen\\nHis followers up from other men\\nHis service liberty indeed,\\nHe built no church, He framed no creed\\nBut while the saintly Pharisee\\nMade broader his phylactery.\\nAs from the synagogue was seen\\nThe dusty-sandalled Nazarene\\nThrough ripening cornfields lead the way\\nUpon the awful Sabbath day,\\nHis sermons were the healthful talk\\nThat shorter made the mountain-walk.\\nHis wayside texts were flowers and birds,\\nWhere mingled with His gracious words\\nThe rustle of the tamarisk-tree\\nAnd ripple-wash of Galilee.\\nThy words are well, O friend, I said\\nUnmeasured and unlimited.\\nWith noiseless slide of stone to stone.\\nThe mystic Church of God has grown.\\nInvisible and silent stands\\nThe temple never made with hands,\\nUnheard the voices still and small\\nOf its unseen confessional.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0084.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING 65\\nHe needs no special place of prayer\\nWhose hearing ear is everywhere\\nHe brings not back the childish days\\nThat ringed the earth with stones of praise,\\nRoofed Karnak s hall of gods, and laid\\nThe plinths of Philse s colonnade.\\nStill less He owns the selfish good\\nAnd sickly growth of solitude,\\nThe worthless grace that, out of sight,\\nFlowers in the desert anchorite\\nDissevered from the suffering whole.\\nLove hath no power to save a soul.\\nNot out of Self, the origin\\nAnd native air and soil of sin,\\nThe living waters spring and flow,\\nThe trees with leaves of healing grow.\\nDream not, O friend, because I seek\\nThis quiet shelter twice a week,\\nI better deem its pine-laid floor\\nThan breezy hill or sea-sung shore\\nBut nature is not solitude\\nShe crowds us with her thronging wood\\nHer many hands reach out to us.\\nHer many tongues are garrulous\\nPerpetual riddles of surprise\\nShe offers to our ears and eyes\\nShe will not leave our senses still,\\nBut drags them captive at her will\\nAnd, making earth too great for heaven,\\nShe hides the Giver in the given.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0085.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING\\nAnd so I find it well to come\\nFor deeper rest to this still room,\\nFor here the habit of the soul\\nFeels less the outer world s control\\nThe strength of mutual purpose pleads\\nMore earnestly our common needs\\nAnd from the silence multiplied\\nBy these still forms on either side,\\nThe world that time and sense have known\\nFalls off and leaves us God alone.\\nYet rarely through the charmed repose\\nUnmixed the stream of motive flows,\\nA flavor of its many springs,\\nThe tints of earth and sky it brings\\nIn the still waters needs must be\\nSome shade of human sympathy\\nAnd here, in its accustomed place,\\nI look on memory s dearest face\\nThe blind by-sitter guesseth not\\nWhat shadow haunts that vacant spot\\nNo eyes save mine alone can see\\nThe love wherewith it welcomes me\\nAnd still, with those alone my kin,\\nIn doubt and weakness, want and sin,\\nI bow my head, my heart I bare.\\nAs when that face was living there.\\nAnd strive (too oft, alas in vain)\\nThe peace of simple trust to gain.\\nFold fancy s restless wings, and lay\\nThe idols of my heart away.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0086.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING 67\\nWelcome the silence all utibroken,\\nNor less the words of fitness spoken,\\nSuch golden words as hers for whom\\nOur autumn flowers have just made room\\nWhose hopeful utterance through and through\\nThe freshness of the morning blew\\nWho loved not less the earth that light\\nFell on it from the heavens in sight,\\nBut saw in all fair forms more fair\\nThe Eternal beauty mirrored there.\\nWhose eighty years but added grace\\nAnd saintlier meaning to her face,\\nThe look of one who bore away\\nGlad tidings from the hills of day,\\nWhile all our hearts went forth to meet\\nThe coming of her beautiful feet\\nOr haply hers, whose pilgrim tread\\nIs in the paths where Jesus led\\nWho dreams her childhood s sabbath dream\\nBy Jordan s willow -shaded stream.\\nAnd, of the hymns of hope and faith,\\nSung by the monks of Nazareth,\\nHears pious echoes, in the call\\nTo prayer, from Moslem minarets fall,\\nEepeating where His works were wrought\\nThe lesson that her Master taught\\nOf whom an elder Sibyl gave\\nThe prophecies of Cumae s cave\\nI ask no organ s soulless breath\\nTo drone the themes of life and death,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0087.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "68 THE MEETING\\nNo altar candle-lit by day,\\nNo ornate wordsman s rhetoric-play,\\nNo cool philosophy to teach\\nIts bland audacities of speech\\nTo double-tasked idolaters\\nThemselves their gods and worshippers.\\nNo pulpit hammered by the fist\\nOf loud-asserting dogmatist,\\nWho borrows for the Hand of love\\nThe smoking thunderbolts of Jove.\\nI know how well the fathers taught.\\nWhat work the later schoolmen wrought\\nI reverence old-time faith and men,\\nBut God is near us now as then\\nHis force of love is still unspent,\\nHis hate of sin as imminent\\nAnd still the measure of our needs\\nOutgrows the cramping bounds of creeds\\nThe manna gathered yesterday\\nAlready savors of decay\\nDoubts to the world^s child-heart unknown\\nQuestion us now from star and stone\\nToo little or too much we know,\\nAnd sight is swift and faith is slow\\nThe power is lost to self-deceive\\nWith shallow forms of make-believe.\\nWe walk at high noon, and the bells\\nCall to a thousand oracles,\\nBut the sound deafens, and the light\\nIs stronger than our dazzled sight\\nThe letters of the sacred Book\\nGlimmer and swim beneath our look", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0088.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE MEETING\\nStill struggles in the Age s breast\\nWith deepening agony of quest\\nThe old entreaty Art thou He,\\nOr look we for the Christ to be\\nGod should be most where man is least\\nSo, where is neither church nor priest.\\nAnd never rag of form or creed\\nTo clothe the nakedness of need,\\nWhere farmer-folk in silence meet,\\nI turn my bell-unsummoned feet\\nI lay the critic s glass aside,\\nI tread upon my lettered pride,\\nAnd, lowest-seated, testify\\nTo the oneness of humanity\\nConfess the universal want,\\nAnd share whatever Heaven may grant.\\nHe findeth not who seeks his own,\\nThe soul is lost that s saved alone.\\nNot on one favored forehead fell\\nOf old the fire-tongued miracle.\\nBut flamed o er all the thronging host\\nThe baptism of the Holy Ghost\\nHeart answers heart in one desire\\nThe blending lines of prayer aspire\\nWhere, in my name, meet two or three,*\\nOur Lord hath said, I there will be\\nSo sometimes comes to soul and sense\\nThe feeling which is evidence\\nThat very near about us lies\\nThe realm of spiritual mysteries.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0089.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "70 THE MEETING\\nThe sphere of the supernal powers\\nImpinges on this world of ours.\\nThe low and dark horizon lifts,\\nTo light the scenic terror shifts\\nThe breath of a diviner air\\nBlows down the answer of a prayer\\nThat all our sorrow, pain, and doubt\\nA great compassion clasps about,\\nAnd law and goodness, love and force,\\nAre wedded fast beyond divorce.\\nThen duty leaves to love its task.\\nThe beggar Self forgets to ask\\nWith smile of trust and folded hands,\\nThe passive soul in waiting stands\\nTo feel, as flowers the sun and dew.\\nThe One true Life its own renew.\\nSo to the calmly gathered thought\\nThe innermost of truth is taught.\\nThe mystery dimly understood,\\nThat love of God is love of good,\\nAnd, chiefly, its divinest trace\\nIn Him of Nazareth s holy face\\nThat to be saved is only this,\\nSalvation from our selfishness.\\nFrom more than elemental fire,\\nThe soul s unsanctified desire.\\nFrom sin itself, and not the pain\\nThat warns us of its chafing chain\\nThat worship s deeper meaning lies\\nIn mercy, and not sacrifice,\\nNot proud humilities of sense", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0090.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "HAMPTON BEACH 71\\nAnd posturing of penitence,\\nBut love s unforced obedience\\nThat Book and Church and Day are given\\nFor man, not God, for earth, not heaven,\\nThe blessed means to holiest ends,\\nNot masters, but benignant friends\\nThat the dear Christ dwells not afar,\\nThe king of some remoter star.\\nListening, at times, with flattered ear\\nTo homage wrung from selfish fear.\\nBut here, amidst the poor and blind.\\nThe bound and suffering of our kind,\\nIn works we do, in prayers we pray.\\nLife of our life, He lives to-day.\\nHAMPTON BEACH\\nTHE sunlight glitters keen and bright,\\nWhere, miles away.\\nLies stretching to my dazzled sight\\nA luminous belt, a misty light.\\nBeyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy\\ngray.\\nThe tremulous shadow of the Sea\\nAgainst its ground\\nOf silvery light, rock, hill, and tree.\\nStill as a picture, clear and free.\\nWith varying outline mark the coast for miles\\naround.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0091.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "72 HAMPTON BEACH\\nOur seaward way,\\nOn on we tread with loose-flung rein\\nThrough dark-green fields and blossoming grain,\\nWhere the wild brier-rose skirts the lane,\\nAnd bends above our heads the flowering locust\\nspray.\\nHa 1 like a kind hand on my brow\\nComes this fresh breeze,\\nCooling its dull and feverish glow.\\nWhile through my being seems to flow\\nThe breath of a new life, the healing of the seas\\nNow rest we, where this grassy mound\\nHis feet hath set\\nIn the great waters, which have bound\\nHis granite ankles greenly round\\nWith long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool\\nspray wet.\\nGood-by to Pain and Care I take\\nMine ease to-day\\nHere where these sunny waters break.\\nAnd ripples this keen breeze, I shake\\nAll burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts\\naway.\\nI draw a freer breath, I seem\\nLike all I see\\nWaves in the sun, the white-winged gleam\\nOf sea-birds in the slanting beam,\\nAnd far-off sails which flit before the south-wind\\nfree.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0092.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "HAMPTON BEACH 73\\nSo when Time s veil shall fall asunder,\\nThe soul may know\\nNo fearful change, nor sudden wonder,\\nNor sink the weight of mystery under.\\nBut with the upward rise, and with the vastness\\ngrow.\\nAnd all we shrink from now may seem\\nNo new revealing\\nFamiliar as our childhood s stream,\\nOr pleasant memory of a dream\\nThe loved and cherished Past upon the new life\\nstealing.\\nSerene and mild the untried light\\nMay have its dawning\\nAnd, as in summer s northern night\\nThe evening and the dawn unite,\\nThe sunset hues of Time blend with the soul s\\nnew morning.\\n1 sit alone in foam and spray\\nWave after wave\\nBreaks on the rocks which, stern and gray.\\nShoulder the broken tide away.\\nOr murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy\\ncleft and cave.\\nWhat heed I of the dusty land\\nAnd noisy town\\nI see the mighty deep expand", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0093.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "74 HAMPTON BEACH\\nFrom its white line of glimmering sand\\nTo where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts\\ndown\\nIn listless quietude of mind,\\nI yield to all\\nThe change of cloud and wave and wind\\nAnd passive on the flood reclined,\\nI wander with the waves, and with them rise and\\nfall.\\nBut look, thou dreamer I wave and shore\\nIn shadow lie\\nThe night-wind warns me back once more\\nTo where, my native hill-tops o er,\\nBends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky.\\nSo then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell\\nI bear with me\\nISTo token stone nor glittering shell.\\nBut long and oft shall Memory tell\\nOf this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the\\nSea.\\nA SEA DREAM\\nWE saw the slow tides go and come,\\nThe curving surf-lines lightly drawn,\\nThe gray rocks touched with tender bloom\\nBeneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0094.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "A SEA DREAM 75\\nWe saw in richer sunsets lost\\nThe sombre pomp of showery noons\\nAnd signalled spectral sails that crossed\\nThe weird, low light of rising moons.\\nOn stormy eves from cliff and head\\nWe saw the white spray tossed and\\nspurned\\nWhile over all, in gold and red.\\nIts face of fire the lighthouse turned.\\nThe rail-car brought its daily crowds,\\nHalf curious, half indifferent.\\nLike passing sails or floating clouds,\\nWe saw them as they came and went.\\nBut, one calm morning, as we lay\\nAnd watched the mirage-lifted wall\\nOf coast, across the dreamy bay,\\nAnd heard afar the curlew call,\\nAnd nearer voices, wild or tame.\\nOf airy flock and childish throng,\\nUp from the water s edge there came\\nFaint snatches of familiar song.\\nCareless we heard the singer s choice\\nOf old and common airs at last\\nThe tender pathos of his voice\\nIn one low chanson held us fast.\\nA song that mingled joy and pain,\\nAnd memories old and sadly sweet", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0095.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "76 A SEA DREAM\\nWhile, timing to its minor strain,\\nThe waves in lapsing cadence beat.\\nThe waves are glad in breeze and sun\\nThe rocks are fringed with foam\\nI walk once more a haunted shore,\\nA stranger, yet at home,\\nA land of dreams I roam.\\nIs this the wind, the soft sea-wind\\nThat stirred thy locks of brown\\nAre these the rocks whose mosses knew\\nThe trail of thy light gown.\\nWhere boy and girl sat down\\nI see the gray fort s broken wall,\\nThe boats that rock below\\nAnd, out at sea, the passing sails\\nWe saw so long ago\\nEose-red in morning s glow.\\nThe freshness of the early time\\nOn every breeze is blown\\nAs glad the sea, as blue the sky,\\nThe change is ours alone\\nThe saddest is my own.\\nA stranger now, a world-worn man,\\nIs he who bears my name\\nBut thou, methinks, whose mortal life\\nImmortal youth became,\\nArt evermore the same.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0096.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "A SEA DREAM 77\\nThou art not here, thou art not there,\\nThy place I cannot see\\nI only know that where thou art\\nThe blessed angels be,\\nAnd heaven is glad for thee.\\nForgive me if the evil years\\nHave left on me their sign\\nWash out, O soul so beautiful,\\nThe many stains of mine\\nIn tears of love divine\\nI could not look on thee and live.\\nIf thou wert by my side\\nThe vision of a shining one.\\nThe white and heavenly bride,\\nIs well to me denied.\\nBut turn to me thy dear girl-face\\nWithout the angel s crown,\\nThe wedded roses of thy lips,\\nThy loose hair rippling down\\nIn waves of golden brown.\\nLook forth once more through space and\\ntime,\\nAnd let thy sweet shade fall\\nIn tenderest grace of soul and form\\nOn memory s frescoed wall,\\nA shadow, and yet all\\nDraw near, more near, forever dear\\nWhere er I rest or roam.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0097.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "78 A SEA DREAM\\nOr in the city s crowded streets,\\nOr by the blown sea foam,\\nThe thought of thee is home\\nAt breakfast hour the singer read\\nThe city news, with comment wise,\\nLike one who felt the pulse of trade\\nBeneath his finger fall and rise.\\nHis look, his air, his curt speech, told\\nThe man of action, not of books.\\nTo whom the corners made in gold\\nAnd stocks were more than seaside nooks.\\nOf life beneath the life confessed\\nHis song had hinted unawares\\nOf flowers in traffic s ledgers pressed,\\nOf human hearts in bulls and bears.\\nBut eyes in vain were turned to watch\\nThat face so hard and shrewd and strong\\nAnd ears in vain grew sharp to catch\\nThe meaning of that morning song.\\nIn vain some sweet-voiced querist sought\\nTo sound him, leaving as she came\\nHer baited album only caught\\nA common, unromantic name.\\nNo word betrayed the mystery fine,\\nThat trembled on the singer s tongue\\nHe came and went, and left no sign\\nBehind him save the song he sung.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0098.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE\\nLAKE WINNIPESAUKEE\\nI. NOON\\nWHITE clouds, whose shadows haunt the\\ndeep\\nLight mists, whose soft embraces keep\\nThe sunshine on the hills asleep\\nO isles of calm O dark, still wood\\nAnd stiller skies that overbrood\\nYour rest with deeper quietude\\nshapes and hues, dim beckoning, through\\nYon mountain gaps, my longing view\\nBeyond the purple and the blue,\\nTo stiller sea and greener land.\\nAnd softer lights and airs more iDland,\\nAnd skies, the hollow of God s hand\\nTransfused through you, O mountain friends\\nWith mine your solemn spirit blends,\\nAnd life no more hath separate ends.\\n1 read each misty mountain sign,\\nI know the voice of wave and pine,\\nAnd I am yours, and ye are mine.\\nLife s burdens fall, its discords cease,\\nI lapse into the glad release\\nOf Nature s own exceeding peace.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0099.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "80 SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE\\nO welcome calm of heart and mind\\nAs falls yon fir-tree s loosened rind\\nTo leave a tenderer growth behind,\\nSo fall the weary years away\\nA child again, my head I lay\\nUpon the lap of this sweet day.\\nThis western wind hath Lethean powers,\\nYon noonday cloud nepenthe showers,\\nThe lake is white with lotus-flowers\\nEven Duty s voice is faint and low.\\nAnd slumberous Conscience, waking slow,\\nForgets her blotted scroll to show.\\nThe Shadow which pursues us all.\\nWhose ever-nearing steps appall.\\nWhose voice we hear behind us call,\\nThat Shadow blends with mountain gray.\\nIt speaks but what the light waves say,\\nDeath walks apart from Fear to-day\\nRocked on her breast, these pines and I\\nAlike on Nature s love rely\\nAnd equal seems to live or die.\\nAssured that He whose presence fills\\nWith light the spaces of these hills\\nNo evil to His creatures wills,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0100.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE 81\\nThe simple faith remains, that He\\nWill do, whatever that may be,\\nThe best alike for man and tree.\\nWhat mosses over one shall grow,\\nWhat light and life the other know,\\nUnanxious, leaving Him to show,\\nII. EVENING\\nYon mountain s side is black with night,\\nWhile, broad-orbed, o er its gleaming crown\\nThe moon, slow-rounding into sight.\\nOn the hushed inland sea looks down.\\nHow start to light the clustering isles,\\nEach silver-hemmed I How sharply show\\nThe shadows of their rocky piles.\\nAnd tree-tops in the wave below\\nHow far and strange the mountains seem,\\nDim-looming through the pale, still light\\nThe vague, vast grouping of a dream.\\nThey stretch into the solemn night.\\nBeneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale,\\nHushed by that presence grand and grave,\\nAre silent, save the cricket s wail,\\nAnd low response of leaf and wave.\\nFair scenes whereto the Day and Night\\nMake rival love, I leave ye soon.\\nWhat time before the eastern light\\nThe pale ghost of the setting moon", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0101.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "82 SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE\\nShall hide behind yon rocky spines,\\nAnd the young archer, Morn, shall break\\nHis arrows on the mountain pines,\\nAnd, golden-sandalled, walk the lake I\\nFarewell around this smiling bay\\nGay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom,\\nWith lighter steps than mine, may stray\\nIn radiant summers yet to come.\\nBut none shall more regretful leave\\nThese waters and these hills than I\\nOr, distant, fonder dream how eve\\nOr dawn is painting wave and sky\\nHow rising moons shine sad and mild\\nOn wooded isle and silvering bay\\nOr setting suns beyond the piled\\nAnd purple mountains lead the day;\\nNor laughing girl, nor bearding boy.\\nNor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here,\\nShall add, to life s abounding joy.\\nThe charmed repose to su:ISering dear.\\nStill waits kind Nature to impart\\nHer choicest gifts to such as gain\\nAn entrance to her loving heart\\nThrough the sharp discipline of pain.\\nForever from the Hand that takes\\nOne blessing from us others fall", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0102.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP 83\\nAnd, soon or late, our Father makes\\nHis perfect recompense to all\\nOh, watched by Silence and the Night,\\nAnd folded in the strong embrace\\nOf the great mountains, with the light\\nOf the sweet heavens upon thy face,\\nLake of the Northland keep thy dower\\nOf beauty still, and while above\\nThy solemn mountains speak of power,\\nBe thou the mirror of God s love.\\nSUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP\\nA GOLD fringe on the purpling hem\\nOf hills the river runs.\\nAs down its long, green valley falls\\nThe last of summer s suns.\\nAlong its tawny gravel-bed\\nBroad-flowing, swift, and still.\\nAs if its meadow levels felt\\nThe hurry of the hill.\\nNoiseless between its* banks of green\\nFrom curve to curve it slips\\nThe drowsy maple-shadows rest\\nLike fingers on its lips.\\nA waif from Carroll s wildest hills,\\nUnstoried and unknown\\nThe ursine legend of its name\\nProwls on its banks alone.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0103.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "84 SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP\\nYet flowers as fair its slopes adorn\\nAs ever Yarrow knew,\\nOr, under rainy Irish skies,\\nBy Spenser s Mulla grew\\nAnd through the gaps of leaning trees\\nIts mountain cradle shows\\nThe gold against the amethyst.\\nThe green against the rose.\\nTouched by a light that hath no name,\\nA glory never sung.\\nAloft on sky and mountain wall\\nAre God s great pictures hung.\\nHow changed the summits vast and old\\nNo longer granite-browed.\\nThey melt in rosy mist the rock\\nIs softer than the cloud\\nThe valley holds its breath no leaf\\nOf all its elms is twirled\\nThe silence of eternity\\nSeems falling on the world.\\nThe pause before the breaking seals\\nOf mystery is this\\nYon miracle-play of night and day\\nMakes dumb its witnesses.\\nWhat unseen altar crowns the hills\\nThat reach up stair on stair\\nWhat eyes look through, what white wings fan\\nThese purple veils of air\\nWhat Presence from the heavenly heights\\nTo those of earth stoops down", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0104.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP 85\\nNot vainly Hellas dreamed of gods\\nOn Ida s snowy crown\\nSlow fades the vision of the sky,\\nThe golden water pales,\\nAnd over all the valley-land\\nA gray-winged vapor sails.\\nI go the common way of all\\nThe sunset fires will burn,\\nThe flowers will blow, the river flow,\\nWhen I no more return.\\nNo whisper from the mountain pine\\nNor lapsing stream shall tell\\nThe stranger, treading where I tread,\\nOf him who loved them well.\\nBut beauty seen is never lost,\\nGod*s colors all are fast\\nThe glory of this sunset heaven\\nInto my soul has passed,\\nA sense of gladness unconfined\\nTo mortal date or clime\\nAs the soul liveth, it shall live\\nBeyond the years of time.\\nBeside the mystic asphodels\\nShall bloom the home-born flowers,\\nAnd new horizons flush and glow\\nWith sunset hues of ours.\\nFarewell these smiling hills must wear\\nToo soon their wintry frown.\\nAnd snow-cold winds from off them shake\\nThe maple s red leaves down.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0105.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "86 THE LAST WALK IST AUTUMN\\nBut I shall see a summer sun\\nStill setting broad and low\\nThe mountain slopes shall blush and bloom,\\nThe golden water flow.\\nA lover s claim is mine on all\\nI see to have and hold,\\nThe rose-light of perpetual hills,\\nAnd sunsets never cold\\nTHE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN\\nI\\nO EE, the bare woods, whose outstretchedhands\\nPlead with the leaden heavens in vain,\\nI see, beyond the valley lands.\\nThe sea s long level dim with rain.\\nAround me all things, stark and dumb.\\nSeem praying for the snows to come,\\nAnd, for the summer bloom and greenness gone.\\nWith winter s sunset lights and dazzling morn\\natone.\\nII\\nAlong the river s summer walk.\\nThe withered tufts of asters nod\\nAnd trembles on its arid stalk\\nThe hoar plume of the golden-rod.\\nAnd on a ground of sombre fir,\\nAnd azure-studded juniper.\\nThe silver birch its buds of purple shows.\\nAnd scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet\\nwild-rose", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0106.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN 87\\nIII\\nWith mingled sound of horns and bells,\\nA far-heard clang, the wild geese fly.\\nStorm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells,\\nLike a great arrow through the sky.\\nTwo dusky lines converged in one.\\nChasing the southward-flying sun\\nWhile the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay\\nCall to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.\\nIV\\nI passed this way a year ago\\nThe wind blew south the noon of day\\nWas warm as June s and save that snow\\nFlecked the low mountains far away.\\nAnd that the vernal-seeming breeze\\nMocked faded grass and leafless trees,\\nI might have dreamed of summer as I lay,\\nWatching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at\\nplay.\\nV\\nSince then, the winter blasts have piled\\nThe white pagodas of the snow\\nOn these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,\\nYon river, in its overflow\\nOf spring-time rain and sun, set free.\\nCrashed with its ices to the sea\\nAnd over these gray fields, then green and gold,\\nThe summer corn has waved, the thunder s organ\\nrolled.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0107.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "88 THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN\\nVI\\nRich gift of God I A year of time 1\\nWhat pomp of rise and shut of day,\\nWhat hues wherewith our Northern clime\\nMakes autumn^s dropping woodlands gay,\\nWhat airs outblown from ferny dells,\\nAnd clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.\\nWhat songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and\\nflowers.\\nGreen woods and moonlit snows, have in its round\\nbeen ours\\nVII\\nI know not how, in other lands.\\nThe changing seasons come and go\\nWhat splendors fall on Syrian sands.\\nWhat purple lights on Alpine snow I\\nNor how the pomp of sunrise waits\\nOn Venice at her watery gates\\nA dream alone to me is Arno s vale.\\nAnd the Alhambra s halls are but a traveller s\\ntale.\\nVIII\\nYet, on life s current, he who drifts\\nIs one with him who rows or sails;\\nAnd he who wanders widest lifts\\nNo more of beauty s jealous veils\\nThan he who from his doorway sees\\nThe miracle of flowers and trees,\\nFeels the warm Orient in the noonday air.\\nAnd from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to\\nprayer", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0108.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN 89\\nIX\\nThe eye may well be glad that looks\\nWhere Pharpar s fountains rise and fall\\nBut he who sees his native brooks\\nLaugh in the sun, has seen them all.\\nThe marble palaces of Ind\\nRise round him in the snow and wind\\nFrom his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,\\nAnd Rome s cathedral awe is in his woodland\\naisles.\\nAnd thus it is my fancy blends\\nThe near at hand and far and rare\\nAnd while the same horizon bends\\nAbove the silver-sprinkled hair\\nWhich flashed the light of morning skies\\nOn childhood s wonder-lifted eyes.\\nWithin its round of sea and sky and field.\\nEarth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands\\nrevealed.\\nXI\\nAnd thus the sick man on his bed.\\nThe toiler to his task-work bound.\\nBehold their prison-walls outspread.\\nTheir clipped horizon widen round I\\nWhile freedom-giving fancy waits,\\nLike Peter s angel at the gates.\\nThe power is theirs to baffle care and pain.\\nTo bring the lost world back, and make it theirs\\nagain", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0109.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "90 THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN\\nXII\\nWhat lack of goodly company,\\nWhen masters of the ancient lyre\\nObey my call, and trace for me\\nTheir words of mingled tears and fire I\\nI talk with Bacon, grave and wise,\\nI read the world with Pascal s eyes;\\nAnd priest and sage, with solemn brows austere,\\nAnd poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought,\\ndraw near.\\nXIII\\nMethinks, O friend, I hear thee say,\\nIn vain the human heart we mock\\nBring living guests who love the day.\\nNot ghosts who fly at crow of cock I\\nThe herbs we share with flesh and blood\\nAre better than ambrosial food\\nWith laurelled shades. I grant it, nothing loath,\\nBut doubly blest is he who can partake of both.\\nXIV\\nHe who might Plato s banquet grace,\\nHave I not seen before me sit.\\nAnd watched his puritanic face.\\nWith more than Eastern wisdom lit?\\nShrewd mystic who, upon the back\\nOf his Poor Richard s Almanac\\nWriting the Sufi s song, the Gentoo s dream,\\nLinks Manu s age of thought to Fulton s age of\\nsteam I", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0110.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN 91\\nXV\\nHere too, of answering love secure,\\nHave I not welcomed to my hearth\\nThe gentle pilgrim troubadour,\\nWhose songs have girdled half the earth\\nWhose pages, like the magic mat\\nWhereon the Eastern lover sat.\\nHave borne me over Ehine-land s purple vines,\\nAnd Nubia s tawny sands, and Phrygians mountain\\npines I\\nXVI\\nAnd he, who to the lettered wealth\\nOf ages adds the lore unpriced.\\nThe wisdom and the moral health,\\nThe ethics of the school of Christ;\\nThe statesman to his holy trust,\\nAs the Athenian archon, just,\\nStruck down, exiled like him for truth alone.\\nHas he not graced my home with beauty all his\\nown?\\nXVII\\nWhat greetings smile, what farewells wave,\\nWhat loved ones enter and depart\\nThe good, the beautiful, the brave,\\nThe Heaven-lent treasures of the heart\\nHow conscious seems the frozen sod\\nAnd beechen slope whereon they trod\\nThe oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends\\nBeneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent\\nfriends.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0111.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "92 THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN\\nXVIII\\nThen ask not why to these bleak hills\\nI cling, as clings the tnfted moss,\\nTo bear the winter s lingering chills,\\nThe mocking spring s perpetual loss.\\nI dream of lands where summer smiles,\\nAnd soft winds blow from spicy isles,\\nBut scarce would Ceylon s breath of flowers be\\nsweet,\\nCould I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet I\\nXIX\\nAt times I long for gentler skies.\\nAnd bathe in dreams of softer air,\\nBut homesick tears would fill the eyes\\nThat saw the Cross without the Bear.\\nThe pine must whisper to the palm,\\nThe north-wind break the tropic calm\\nAnd with the dreamy languor of the Line,\\nThe North s keen virtue blend, and strength to\\nbeauty join.\\nXX\\nBetter to stem with heart and hand\\nThe roaring tide of life, than lie,\\nUnmindful, on its flowery strand,\\nOf God s occasions drifting by I\\nBetter with naked nerve to bear\\nThe needles of this goading air.\\nThan, in the lap of sensual ease, forego\\nThe godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0112.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN 93\\nXXI\\nHome of my heart I to me more fair\\nThan gay Versailles or Windsor s halls,\\nThe painted, shingly town-house where\\nThe freeman s vote for Freedom falls\\nThe simple roof where prayer is made,\\nThan Gothic groin and colonnade\\nThe living temple of the heart of man,\\nThan Rome s sky-mocking vault, or many-spired\\nMilan!\\nXXII\\nMore dear thy equal village schools,\\nWhere rich and poor the Bible read,\\nThan classic halls where Priestcraft rules,\\nAnd Learning wears the chains of Creed\\nThy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in\\nThe scattered sheaves of home and kin.\\nThan the mad license ushering Lenten pains.\\nOr holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in\\nchains.\\nxxin\\nAnd sweet homes nestle in these dales.\\nAnd perch along these wooded swells\\nAnd, blest beyond Arcadian vales,\\nThey hear the sound of Sabbath bells\\nHere dwells no perfect man sublime.\\nNor woman winged before her time.\\nBut with the faults and follies of the race,\\nOld home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored\\nplace.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0113.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "94 THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN\\nXXIV\\nI Here manhood struggles for the sake\\nOf mother, sister, daughter, wife,\\nThe graces and the loves which make\\nThe music of the march of life\\nAnd woman, in her daily round\\nOf duty, walks on holy ground.\\nNo unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here\\nIs the bad lesson learned at human rights to\\nsneer.\\nXXV\\nThen let the icy north-wind blow\\nThe trumpets of the coming storm,\\nTo arrowy sleet and blinding snow\\nYon slanting lines of rain transform.\\nYoung hearts shall hail the drifted cold,\\nAs gayly as I did of old\\nAnd I, who watch them through the frosty pane,\\nUnenvious, live in them my boyhood o er again.\\nXXVI\\nAnd I will trust that He who heeds\\nThe life that hides in mead and wold,\\nWho hangs yon alder s crimson beads,\\nAnd stains these mosses green and gold,\\nWill still, as He hath done, incline\\nHis gracious care to me and mine\\nGrant what we ask aright, from wrong debar.\\nAnd, as the earth grows dark, make brighter\\nevery star I", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0114.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION 95\\nXXVII\\nI have not seen, I may not see,\\nMy hopes for man take form in fact,\\nBut God will give the victory\\nIn due time in that faith I act.\\nAnd he who sees the future sure,\\nThe baffling present may endure,\\nAnd bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads\\nThe heart s desires beyond the halting step of\\ndeeds.\\nXXVIII\\nAnd thou, my song, I send thee forth,\\nWhere harsher songs of mine have flown\\nGo, find a place at home and hearth\\nWhere er thy singer s name is known\\nRevive for him the kindly thought\\nOf friends and they who love him not.\\nTouched by some strain of thine, perchance may\\ntake\\nThe hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy\\nsake.\\nAN OUTDOOR RECEPTION\\nThe substance of these lines, hastily pencilled several\\nyears ago, I find among such of my unprinted scraps as\\nhave escaped the waste-basket and the fire. In transcrib-\\ning it I have made some changes, additions, and omissions.\\no\\nN these green banks, where falls too soon\\nThe shade of Autumn s afternoon.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0115.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "96 AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION\\nThe south wind blowing soft and sweet,\\nThe water gliding at my feet,\\nThe distant northern range uplit\\nBy the slant sunshine over it,\\nWith changes of the mountain mist\\nFrom tender blush to amethyst,\\nThe valley s stretch of shade and gleam\\nFair as in Mirza s Bagdad dream.\\nWith glad young faces smiling near\\nAnd merry voices in my ear,\\nI sit, methinks, as Hafiz might\\nIn Iran s Garden of Delight.\\nFor Persian roses blushing red,\\nAster and gentian bloom instead\\nFor Shiraz wine, this mountain air\\nFor feast, the blueberries which I share\\nWith one who proffers with stained hands\\nHer gleanings from yon pasture lands,\\nWild fruit that art and culture spoil,\\nThe harvest of an untilled soil\\nAnd with her one whose tender eyes\\nReflect the change of April skies,\\nMidway twixt child and maiden yet,\\nFresh as Spring s earliest violet\\nAnd one whose look and voice and ways\\nMake where she goes idyllic days\\nAnd one whose sweet, still countenance\\nSeems dreamful of a child s romance\\nAnd others, welcome as are these.\\nLike and unlike, varieties\\nOf pearls on nature s chaplet strung,\\nAnd all are fair, for all are young.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0116.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION 97\\nGathered from seaside cities old,\\nFrom midland prairie, lake, and wold,\\nFrom the great wheat-fields, which might feed\\nThe hunger of a world at need.\\nIn healthful change of rest and play\\nTheir school-vacations glide away.\\nNo critics these they only see\\nAn old and kindly friend in me,\\nIn whose amused, indulgent look\\nTheir innocent mirth has no rebuke.\\nThey scarce can know my rugged rhymes,\\nThe harsher songs of evil times,\\nNor graver themes in minor keys\\nOf life s and death s solemnities\\nBut haply, as they bear in mind\\nSome verse of lighter, happier kind,\\nHints of the boyhood of the man,\\nYouth viewed from life s meridian,\\nHalf seriously and half in play\\nMy pleasant interviewers pay\\nTheir visit, with no fell intent\\nOf taking notes and punishment.\\nAs yonder solitary pine\\nIs ringed below with flower and vine.\\nMore favored than that lonely tree.\\nThe bloom of girlhood circles me.\\nIn such an atmosphere of youth\\nI half forget my age s truth\\nThe shadow of my life s long date\\nRuns backward on the dial-plate,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0117.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "98 AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION\\nUntil it seems a step might span\\nThe gulf between the boy and man.\\nMy young friends smile, as if some jay\\nOn bleak December s leafless spray\\nEssayed to sing the songs of May.\\nWell, let them smile, and live to know,\\nWhen their brown locks are flecked with snow,\\nT is tedious to be always sage\\nAnd pose the dignity of age.\\nWhile so much of our early lives\\nOn memory s playground still survives,\\nAnd owns, as at the present hour.\\nThe spell of youth s magnetic power.\\nBut though I feel, with Solomon,\\nT is pleasant to behold the sun,\\nI would not if I could repeat\\nA life which still is good and sweet\\nI keep in age, as in my prime,\\nA not uncheerf ul step with time.\\nAnd, grateful for all blessings sent,\\nI go the common way, content\\nTo make no new experiment.\\nOn easy terms with law and fate,\\nFor what must be I calmly wait.\\nAnd trust the path I cannot see,\\nThat God is good sufficeth me.\\nAnd when at last on life s strange play\\nThe curtain falls, I only pray\\nThat hope may lose itself in truth.\\nAnd age in Heaven s immortal youth,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0118.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 99\\nAnd all our loves and longing prove\\nThe foretaste of diviner love\\nThe day is done. Its afterglow\\nAlong the west is burning low.\\nMy visitors, like birds, have flown\\nI hear their voices, fainter grown,\\nAnd dimly through the dusk I see\\nTheir kerchiefs wave good-night to me,\\nLight hearts of girlhood, knowing naught\\nOf all the cheer their coming brought\\nAnd, in their going, unaware\\nOf silent-falling feet of prayer\\nHeaven make their budding promise good\\nWith flowers of gracious womanhood\\nTHE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nIt can scarcely be necessary to name as the two com-\\npanions whom I reckoned with myself in this poetical\\npicnic, Fields the lettered magnate, and Taylor the free\\ncosmopolite. The long line of sandy beach which defines\\nalmost the whole of the New Hampshire sea-coast is espe-\\ncially marked, near its southern extremity, by the salt-\\nmeadows of Hampton. The Hampton River winds through\\nthese meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, imagine\\nmy tent pitched near its mouth, where also was the scene\\nof the Wrech of Eivermouth. The green bluff to the north-\\nward is Great Boar s Head southward is the Merrimac,\\nwith Kewburyport lifting its steeples above brown roofs\\nand green trees on its banks. [Mr. Whittier originally de-\\nsigned following the Decameron method and feigning that\\neach person read his own poem, but abandoned it as too\\nhackneyed.]", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0119.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "100 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nI WOULD not sin, in this half-playful strain,\\nToo light perhaps for serious years, though\\nborn\\nOf the enforced leisure of slow pain,\\nAgainst the pure ideal which has drawn\\nMy feet to follow its far-shining gleam.\\nA simple plot is mine legends and runes\\nOf credulous days, old fancies that have lain\\nSilent from boyhood taking voice again.\\nWarmed into life once more, even as the tunes\\nThat, frozen in the fabled hunting-horn,\\nThawed into sound a winter fireside dream\\nOf dawns and sunsets by the summer sea,\\nWhose sands are traversed by a silent throng\\nOf voyagers from that vaster mystery\\nOf which it is an emblem and the dear\\nMemory of one who might have tuned my song\\nTo sweeter music by her delicate ear.\\nWhen heats as of a tropic clime\\nBurned all our inland valleys through,\\nThree friends, the guests of summer time,\\nPitched their white tent where sea-winds\\nblew.\\nBehind them, marshes, seamed and crossed\\nWith narrow creeks, and flower-embossed,\\nStretched to the dark oak wood, whose leafy arms\\nScreened from the stormy East the pleasant in-\\nland farms.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0120.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 101\\nAt full of tide their bolder shore\\nOf sun-bleached sand the waters beat\\nAt ebb, a smooth and glistening floor\\nThey touched with light, receding feet.\\nNorthward a green bluff broke the chain\\nOf sand-hills southward stretched a plain\\nOf salt grass, with a river winding down.\\nSail whitened, and beyond the steeples of the\\ntown,\\nWhence sometimes, when the wind was light\\nAnd dull the thunder of the beach.\\nThey heard the bells of morn and night\\nSwing, miles away, their silver speech.\\nAbove low scarp and turf-grown wall\\nThey saw the fort-flag rise and fall\\nAnd, the first star to signal twilight s hour.\\nThe lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall light-\\nhouse tower.\\nThey rested there, escaped awhile\\nFrom cares that wear the life away,\\nTo eat the lotus of the Nile\\nAnd drink the poppies of Cathay,\\nTo fling their loads of custom down.\\nLike drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown,\\nAnd in the sea-waves drown the restless pack\\nOf duties, claims, and needs that barked upon\\ntheir track.\\nOne, with his beard scarce silvered, bore\\nA ready credence in his looks.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0121.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "102 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nA lettered magnate, lording o er\\nAn ever-widening realm of books.\\nIn him brain-currents, near and far,\\nConverged as in a Leyden jar\\nThe old, dead authors thronged him round about,\\nAnd Elzevir s gray ghosts from leathern graves\\nlooked out.\\nHe knew each living pundit well,\\nCould weigh the gifts of him or her,\\nAnd well the market value tell\\nOf poet and philosopher.\\nBut if he lost, the scenes behind.\\nSomewhat of reverence vague and blind,\\nFinding the actors human at the best.\\nNo readier lips than his the good he saw confessed.\\nHis boyhood fancies not outgrown,\\nHe loved himself the singer s art\\nTenderly, gently, by his own\\nHe knew and judged an author s heart.\\nNo Ehadamanthine brow of doom\\nBowed the dazed pedant from his room\\nAnd bards, whose name is legion, if denied.\\nBore off alike intact their verses and their pride.\\nPleasant it was to roam about\\nThe lettered world as he had done,\\nAnd see the lords of song without\\nTheir singing robes and garlands on.\\nWith Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere,\\nTaste rugged Elliott s home-brewed beer.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0122.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 103\\nAnd with the ears of Rogers, at fourscore,\\nHear Garrick s buskined tread and Walpole s wit\\nonce more.\\nAnd one there was, a dreamer born,\\nWho, with a mission to fulfil,\\nHad left the Muses* haunts to turn\\nThe crank of an opinion-mill,\\nMaking his rustic reed of song\\nA weapon in the war with wrong.\\nYoking his fancy to the breaking-plough\\nThat beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring\\nand grow.\\nToo quiet seemed the man to ride\\nThe winged HippogrifE Reform\\nWas his a voice from side to side\\nTo pierce the tumult of the storm\\nA silent, shy, peace-loving man,\\nHe seemed no fiery partisan\\nTo hold his way against the public frown.\\nThe ban of Church and State, the fierce mob s\\nhounding down.\\nFor while he wrought with strenuous will\\nThe work his hands had found to do.\\nHe heard the fitful music still\\nOf winds that out of dream-land blew.\\nThe din about him could not drown\\nWhat the strange voices whispered down\\nAlong his task-field weird processions swept,\\nThe visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0123.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "104 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nThe common air was thick with dreams,\\nHe told them to the toiling crowd\\nSuch music as the woods and streams\\nSang in his ear he sang aloud\\nIn still, shut bays, on windy capes,\\nHe heard the call of beckoning shapes.\\nAnd, as the gray old shadows prompted him.\\nTo homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their le-\\ngends grim.\\nHe rested now his weary hands.\\nAnd lightly moralized and laughed,\\nAs, tracing on the shifting sands\\nA burlesque of his paper-craft.\\nHe saw the careless waves o errun\\nHis words, as time before had done.\\nEach day s tide-water washing clean away.\\nLike letters from the sand, the work of yesterday.\\nAnd one, whose Arab face was tanned\\nBy tropic sun and boreal frost,\\nSo travelled there was scarce a land\\nOr people left him to exhaust.\\nIn idling mood had from him hurled\\nThe poor squeezed orange of the world.\\nAnd in the tent-shade, sat beneath a palm.\\nSmoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental\\ncalm.\\nThe very waves that washed the sand\\nBelow him, he had seen before\\nWhitening the Scandinavian strand\\nAnd sultry Mauritanian shore.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0124.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 105\\nFrom ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas\\nPalm-fringed, they bore him messages\\nHe heard the plaintive Nubian songs again,\\nAnd mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths\\nof Spain.\\nHis memory round the ransacked earth\\nOn Puck s long girdle slid at ease\\nAnd, instant, to the valley s girth\\nOf mountains, spice isles of the seas,\\nFaith flowered in minster stones. Art s guess\\nAt truth and beauty, found access\\nYet loved the while, that free cosmopolite,\\nOld friends, old ways, and kept his boyhood s\\ndreams in sight.\\nUntouched as yet by wealth and pride,\\nThat virgin innocence of beach\\nNo shingly monster, hundred-eyed.\\nStared its gray sand-birds out of reach\\nUnhoused, save where, at intervals,\\nThe white tents showed their canvas walls,\\nWhere brief sojourners, in the cool, soft air,\\nForgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long\\ncare.\\nSometimes along the wheel-deep sand\\nA one-horse wagon slowly crawled,\\nDeep laden with a youthful band,\\nWhose look some homestead old recalled\\nBrother perchance, and sisters twain.\\nAnd one whose blue eyes told, more plain", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0125.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "106 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nThan the free language of her rosy lip,\\nOf the still dearer claim of love s relationship.\\nWith cheeks of russet-orchard tint,\\nThe light laugh of their native rills,\\nThe perfume of their garden s mint,\\nThe breezy freedom of the hills.\\nThey bore, in unrestrained delight,\\nThe motto of the Garter s knight.\\nCareless as if from every gazing thing\\nHid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring.\\nThe clanging sea-fowl came and went,\\nThe hunter s gun in the marshes rang\\nAt nightfall from a neighboring tent\\nA flute-voiced woman sweetly sang.\\nLoose-haired, barefooted, hand-in-hand,\\nYoung girls went tripping down the sand\\nAnd youths and maidens, sitting in the moon.\\nDreamed o er the old fond dream from which we\\nwake too soon.\\nAt times their fishing-lines they plied.\\nWith an old Triton at the oar.\\nSalt as the sea-wind, tough and dried\\nAs a lean cusk from Labrador.\\nStrange tales he told of wreck and storm,\\nHad seen the sea-snake s awful form.\\nAnd heard the ghosts on Haley s Isle complain.\\nSpeak him off shore, and beg a passage to old\\nSpain I", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0126.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 107\\nAnd there, on breezy morns, they saw\\nThe fishing-schooners outward run,\\nTheir low-bent sails in tack and flaw\\nTurned white or dark to shade and sun.\\nSometimes, in calms of closing day.\\nThey watched the spectral mirage play.\\nSaw low, far islands looming tall and nigh,\\nAnd ships, with upturned keels, sail like a sea the\\nsky.\\nSometimes a cloud, with thunder black,\\nStooped low upon the darkening main,\\nPiercing the waves along its track\\nWith the slant javelins of rain.\\nAnd when west-wind and sunshine warm\\nChased out to sea its wrecks of storm.\\nThey saw the prismy hues in thin spray showers\\nWhere the green buds of waves burst into white\\nfroth flowers.\\nAnd when along the line of shore\\nThe mists crept upward chill and damp,\\nStretched, careless, on their sandy floor\\nBeneath the flaring lantern lamp.\\nThey talked of all things old and new,\\nEead, slept, and dreamed as idlers do\\nAnd in the unquestioned freedom of the tent.\\nBody and o er-taxed mind to healthful ease un-\\nbent.\\nOnce, when the sunset splendors died.\\nAnd, trampling up the sloping sand,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0127.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "108 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nIn lines outreacliing far and wide,\\nThe wMte-maned billows swept to land,\\nDim seen across the gathering shade,\\nA vast and ghostly cavalcade.\\nThey sat around their lighted kerosene,\\nHearing the deep bass roar their every pause be-\\ntween.\\nThen, urged thereto, the Editor\\nWithin his full portfolio dipped,\\nFeigning excuse while searching for\\n(With secret pride) his manuscript.\\nHis pale face flushed from eye to beard,\\nWith nervous cough his throat he cleared.\\nAnd, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed\\nThe anxious fondness of an author s heart, he\\nread\\nTHE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH\\nThe Goody Cole who figures in this poem and The Change-\\nling was Eunice Cole, who for a quarter of a century or\\nmore was feared, persecuted, and hated as the witch of\\nHampton. She lived alone in a hovel a little distant from\\nthe spot where the Hampton Academy now stands, and\\nthere she died, unattended. When her death was discov-\\nered, she was hastily covered up in the earth near by, and a\\nstake driven through her body, to exorcise the evil spirit.\\n[When Goody Cole was brought before the Quarter Sessions\\nin 1680 to answer to the charge of being a witch, the court\\ncould not find satisfactory evidence of witchcraft, but so\\nstrong was the feeling against her that Major Waldron, the\\npresiding magistrate, ordered her to be imprisoned with a\\nlock kept on her leg at the pleasure of the court. In such", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0128.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH 109\\njudicial action one can read the fear and vindictive spirit of\\nthe community at large.] Rev. Stephen Bachiler or Batch-\\nelder was one of the ablest of the early New England\\npreachers. His marriage late in life to a woman regarded\\nby his church as disreputable induced him to return to Eng-\\nland, where he enjoyed the esteem and favor of Oliver\\nCromwell during the Protectorate.\\nRiVERMOUTH Rocks are fair to see,\\nBy dawn or sunset shone across,\\nWhen the ebb of the sea has left them free\\nTo dry their fringes of gold-green moss\\nFor there the river comes winding down.\\nFrom salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,\\nAnd waves on the outer rocks af oam\\nShout to its waters, Welcome home\\nAnd fair are the sunny isles in view\\nEast of the grisly Head of the Boar,\\nAnd Agamenticus lifts its blue\\nDisk of a cloud the woodlands o er\\nAnd southerly, when the tide is down,\\nTwixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown.\\nThe beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel\\nOver a floor of burnished steel.\\nOnce, in the old Colonial days.\\nTwo hundred years ago and more,\\nA boat sailed down through the winding ways\\nOf Hampton River to that low shore,\\nFull of a goodly company\\nSailing out on the summer sea,\\nVeering to catch the land-breeze light,\\nWith the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0129.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "110 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nIn Hampton meadows, where mowers laid\\nTheir scythes to the swaths of salted grass,\\nAh, well-a-day our hay must be made\\nA young man sighed, who saw them pass.\\nLoud laughed his fellows to see him stand\\nWhetting his scythe with a listless hand,\\nHearing a voice in a far-off song,\\nWatching a white hand beckoning long.\\nFie on the witch cried a merry girl,\\nAs they rounded the point where Goody Cole\\nSat by her door with her wheel atwirl,\\nA bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.\\nOho she muttered, ye re brave to-day\\nBut I hear the little waves laugh and say,\\nThe broth will be cold that waits at home\\nFor it s one to go, but another to come I\\nShe s cursed, said the skipper speak her\\nfair:\\nI m scary always to see her shake\\nHer wicked head, with its wild gray hair,\\nAnd nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake/*\\nBut merrily still, with laugh and shout.\\nFrom Hampton Eiver the boat sailed out.\\nTill the huts and thefflakes on Star seemed nigh,\\nAnd they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.\\nThey dropped their lines in the lazy tide,\\nDrawing up haddock and mottled cod\\nThey saw not the Shadow that walked beside.\\nThey heard not the feet with silence shod.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0130.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH 111\\nBut thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,\\nShot by the lightnings through and through\\nAnd mufied growls, like the growl of a beast,\\nRan along the sky from west to east.\\nThen the skipper looked from the darkening sea\\nUp to the dimmed and wading sun\\nBut he spake like a brave man cheerily,\\nYet there is time for our homeward run.\\nVeering and tacking, they backward wore\\nAnd just as a breath from the woods ashore\\nBlew out to whisper of danger past,\\nThe wrath of the storm came down at last\\nThe skipper hauled at the heavy sail\\nGod be our help I he only cried.\\nAs the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,\\nSmote the boat on its starboard side.\\nThe Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone\\nDark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,\\nWild rocks lit up by the lightning s glare,\\nThe strife and torment of sea and air.\\nGoody Cole looked out from her door\\nThe Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,\\nScarcely she saw the Head of the Boar\\nToss the foam from tusks of stone.\\nShe clasped her hands with a grip of pain,\\nThe tear on her cheek was not of rain\\nThey are lost, she muttered, boat and crew I\\nLord, forgive me 1 my words were true 1", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0131.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "112 THE TEJSTT ON THE BEACH\\nSuddenly seaward swept the squall\\nThe low sun smote through cloudy rack\\nThe Shoals stood clear in the light, and all\\nThe trend of the coast lay hard and black.\\nBut far and wide as eye could reach,\\nNo life was seen upon wave or beach\\nThe boat that went out at morning never\\nSailed back again into Hampton Kiver.\\nO mower, lean on thy bended snath,\\nLook from the meadows green and low\\nThe wind of the sea is a waft of death,\\nThe waves are singing a song of woe\\nBy silent river, by moaning sea,\\nLong and vain shall thy watching be\\nNever again shall the sweet voice call,\\nNever the white hand rise and fall\\nO Eivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight\\nYe saw in the light of breaking day\\nDead faces looking up cold and white\\nFrom sand and seaweed where they lay.\\nThe mad old witch-wife wailed and wept.\\nAnd cursed the tide as it backward crept\\nCrawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake\\nLeave your dead for the hearts that break 1\\nSolemn it was in that old day\\nIn Hampton town and its log-built church,\\nWhere side by side the coffins lay\\nAnd the mourners stood in aisle and porch.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0132.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH U3\\nIn the singing-seats young eyes were dim,\\nThe voices faltered that raised the hymn,\\nAnd Father Dalton, grave and stern,\\nSobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.\\nBut his ancient colleague did not pray\\nUnder the weight of his fourscore years\\nHe stood apart with the iron-gray\\nOf his strong brows knitted to hide his tears\\nAnd a fair-faced woman of doubtful fame.\\nLinking her own with his honored name,\\nSubtle as sin, at his side withstood\\nThe felt reproach of her neighborhood.\\nApart with them, like them forbid.\\nOld Goody Cole looked drearily round,\\nAs, two by two, with their faces hid,\\nThe mourners walked to the burying-ground.\\nShe let the staff from her clasped hands fall\\nLord, forgive us we re sinners all\\nAnd the voice of the old man answered her\\nAmen said Father Bachiler.\\nSo, as I sat upon Appledore\\nIn the calm of a closing summer day,\\nAnd the broken lines of Hampton shore\\nIn purple mist of cloudland lay,\\nThe River mouth Rocks their story told\\nAnd waves aglow with sunset gold,\\nRising and breaking in steady chime,\\nBeat the rhythm and kept the time.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0133.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "114 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nAnd the sunset paled, and warmed once more\\nWith a softer, tenderer after-glow\\nIn the east was moon-rise, with boats off-shore\\nAnd sails in the distance drifting slow.\\nThe beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,\\nThe White Isle kindled its great red star;\\nAnd life and death in my old-time lay\\nMingled in^ peace like the night and day\\nWell said the Man of Books, your story\\nIs really not ill told in verse.\\nAs the Celt said of purgatory,\\nOne might go farther and fare worse.\\nThe Reader smiled and once again\\nWith steadier voice took up his strain,\\nWhile the fair singer from the neighboring tent\\nDrew near, and at his side a graceful listener bent.\\nTHE GRAVE BY THE LAKE\\nAt the mouth of the Melvin River, which empties into\\nMoultonboro Bay in Lake Winnipesaukee, is a great mound.\\nThe Ossipee Indians had their home in the neighborhood of\\nthe bay, which is plentifully stocked with fish, and many\\nrelics of their occupation have been found.\\nWhere the Great Lake s sunny smiles\\nDimple round its hundred isles.\\nAnd the mountain s granite ledge\\nCleaves the water like a wedge,\\nEinged about with smooth, gray stones,\\nRest the giant s mighty bones.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0134.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE 115\\nClose beside, in shade and gleam,\\nLaughs and ripples Melvin stream\\nMelvin water, mountain-born,\\nAll fair flowers its banks adorn\\nAll the woodland voices meet.\\nMingling with its murmurs sweet.\\nOver lowlands forest-grown,\\nOver waters island-strown,\\nOver silver-sanded beach,\\nLeaf-locked bay and misty reach,\\nMelvin stream and burial-heap,\\nWatch and ward the mountains keep.\\nWho that Titan cromlech fills\\nForest-kaiser, lord o the hills\\nKnight who on the birchen tree\\nCarved his savage heraldry\\nPriest o the pine-wood temples dim.\\nProphet, sage, or wizard grim\\nRugged type of primal man,\\nGrim utilitarian.\\nLoving woods for hunt and prowl,\\nLake and hill for fish and fowl,\\nAs the brown bear blind and dull\\nTo the grand and beautiful\\nNot for him the lesson drawn\\nFrom the mountains smit with dawn.\\nStar-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May,\\nSunset s purple bloom of day,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0135.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "116 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nTook his life no hue from thence,\\nPoor amid such afl3.uence\\nHaply unto hill and tree\\nAll too near akin was he\\nUnto him who stands afar\\nNature s marvels greatest are\\nWho the mountain purple seeks\\nMust not climb the higher peaks.\\nYet who knows, in winter tramp,\\nOr the midnight of the camp,\\nWhat revealings faint and far,\\nStealing down from moon and star.\\nKindled in that human clod\\nThought of destiny and God\\nStateliest forest patriarch.\\nGrand in robes of skin and bark.\\nWhat sepulchral mysteries.\\nWhat weird funeral-rites, were his\\nWhat sharp wail, what drear lament.\\nBack scared wolf and eagle sent\\nNow, whatever he may have been,\\nLow he lies as other men\\nOn his mound the partridge drums,\\nThere the noisy blue-jay comes\\nRank nor name nor pomp has he\\nIn the grave s democracy.\\nPart thy blue lips. Northern lake\\nMoss-grown rocks, your silence break", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0136.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE 117\\nTell the tale, thou ancient tree\\nThou, too, slide-worn Ossipee\\nSpeak, and tell us how and when\\nLived and died this king of men\\nWordless moans the ancient pine\\nLake and mountain give no sign\\nVain to trace this ring of stones\\nVain the search of* crumbling bones\\nDeepest of all mysteries,\\nAnd the saddest, silence is.\\nNameless, noteless, clay with clay\\nMingles slowly day by day\\nBut somewhere, for good or ill,\\nThat dark soul is living still\\nSomewhere yet that atom s force\\nMoves the light-poised universe.\\nStrange that on his burial-sod\\nHarebells bloom, and golden-rod,\\nWhile the souFs dark horoscope\\nHolds no starry sign of hope\\nIs the Unseen with sight at odds\\nNature s pity more than God s\\nThus I mused by Melvin s side,\\nWhile the summer eventide\\nMade the woods and inland sea\\nAnd the mountains mystery\\nAnd the hush of earth and air\\nSeemed the pause before a prayer,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0137.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "118 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nPrayer for him, for all who rest,\\nMother Earth, upon thy breast,\\nLapped on Christian turf, or hid\\nIn rock-cave or pyramid\\nAll who sleep, as all who live,\\nWell may need the prayer, Forgive\\nDesert-smothered caravan.\\nKnee-deep dust that once was man,\\nBattle-trenches ghastly piled.\\nOcean-floors with white bones tiled,\\nCrowded tomb and mounded sod.\\nDumbly crave that prayer to God.\\nOh, the generations old\\nOver whom no church-bells tolled,\\nChristless, lifting up blind eyes\\nTo the silence of the skies\\nFor the innumerable dead\\nIs my soul disquieted.\\nWhere be now these silent hosts\\nWhere the camping-ground of ghosts\\nWhere the spectral conscripts led\\nTo the white tents of the dead\\nWhat strange shore or chartless sea\\nHolds the awful mystery\\nThen the warm sky stooped to make\\nDouble sunset in the lake\\nWhile above I saw with it.\\nRange on range, the mountains lit", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0138.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE 119\\nAnd the calm and splendor stole\\nLike an answer to my soul.\\nHear st thou, O of little faith,\\nWhat to thee the mountain saith,\\nWhat is whispered by the trees?\\nCast on God thy care for these\\nTrust Him, if thy sight be dim\\nDoubt for them is doubt of Him.\\nBlind must be their close-shut eyes\\nWhere like night the sunshine lies,\\nFiery-linked the self-forged chain\\nBinding ever sin to pain.\\nStrong their prison-house of will,\\nBut without He waiteth still.\\nNot with hatred s undertow\\nDoth the Love Eternal flow\\nEvery chain that spirits wear\\nCrumbles in the breath of prayer\\nAnd the penitent s desire\\nOpens every gate of fire.\\nStill Thy love, O Christ arisen,\\nYearns to reach these souls in prison I\\nThrough all depths of sin and loss\\nDrops the plummet of Thy cross\\nNever yet abyss was found\\nDeeper than that cross could sound 1\\nTherefore well may Nature keep\\nEqual faith with all who sleep,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0139.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "120 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nSet her watch of hills around\\nChristian grave and heathen mound,\\nAnd to cairn and kirkyard send\\nSummer s flowery dividend.\\nKeep, O pleasant Melvin stream,\\nThy sweet laugh in shade and gleam\\nOn the Indian s grassy tomb\\nSwing, O flowers, your bells of bloom 1\\nDeep below, as high above.\\nSweeps the circle of God s love.\\nHe paused and questioned with his eye\\nThe hearers verdict on his song.\\nA low voice asked Is t well to pry\\nInto the secrets which belong\\nOnly to God The life to be\\nIs still the unguessed mystery\\nUnsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls remain,\\nWe beat with dream and wish the soundless doors\\nin vain.\\nBut faith beyond our sight may go.\\nHe said The gracious Fatherhood\\nCan only know above, below,\\nEternal purposes of good.\\nFrom our free heritage of will,\\nThe bitter springs of pain and ill\\nFlow only in all worlds. The perfect day\\nOf God is shadowless, and love is love alway.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0140.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 121\\nI know, she said, the letter kills\\nThat on our arid fields of strife\\nAnd heat of clashing texts distils\\nThe dew of spirit and of life.\\nBut, searching still the written Word,\\nI fain would find. Thus saith the Lord,\\nA voucher for the hope I also feel\\nThat sin can give no wound beyond love s power\\nto heal.\\nPray, said the Man of Books, give o er\\nA theme too vast for time and place.\\nGo on. Sir Poet, ride once more\\nYour hobby at his old free pace.\\nBut let him keep, with step discreet,\\nThe solid earth beneath his feet.\\nIn the great mystery which around us lies,\\nThe wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven helped is\\nwise.\\nThe Traveller said If songs have creeds,\\nTheir choice of them let singers make\\nBut Art no other sanction needs\\nThan beauty for its own fair sake.\\nIt grinds not in the mill of use,\\nNor asks for leave, nor begs excuse\\nIt makes the flexile laws it deigns to own,\\nAnd gives its atmosphere its color and its tone.\\nConfess, old friend, your austere school\\nHas left your fancy little chance\\nYou square to reason s rigid rule\\nThe flowing outlines of romance.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0141.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "122 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nWith conscience keen from exercise,\\nAnd chronic fear of compromise,\\nYou check the free play of your rhymes, to clap\\nA moral underneath, and spring it like a trap.\\nThe sweet voice answered Better so\\nThan bolder flights that know no check\\nBetter to use the bit, than throw\\nThe reins all loose on fancy s neck.\\nThe liberal range of Art should be\\nThe breadth of Christian liberty,\\nRestrained alone by challenge and alarm\\nWhere its charmed footsteps tread the border land\\nof harm.\\nBeyond the poet s sweet dream lives\\nThe eternal epic of the mun.\\nHe wisest is who only gives.\\nTrue to himself, the best he can\\nWho, drifting in the winds of praise.\\nThe inward monitor obeys\\nAnd, with the boldness that confesses fear.\\nTakes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience\\nsteer.\\nThanks for the fitting word he speaks.\\nNor less for doubtful word unspoken,\\nFor the false model that he breaks,\\nAs for the moulded grace unbroken\\nFor what is missed and what remains,\\nFor losses which are truest gains,\\nFor reverence conscious of the Eternal eye.\\nAnd truth too fair to need the garnish of a lie.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0142.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 123\\nLaughing, the Critic bowed. I yield\\nThe point without another word;\\nWho ever yet a case appealed\\nWhere beauty s judgment had been heard\\nAnd you, my good friend, owe to me\\nYour warmest thanks for such a plea,\\nAs true withal as sweet. For my offence\\nOf cavil, let her words be ample recompense.\\nAcross the sea one lighthouse star,\\nWith crimson ray that came and went,\\nRevolving on its tower afar.\\nLooked through the doorway of the tent.\\nWhile outward, over sand-slopes wet.\\nThe lamp flashed down its yellow jet\\nOn the long wash of waves, with red and green\\nTangles of weltering weed through the white foam-\\nwreaths seen.\\nSing while we may, another day\\nMay bring enough of sorrow thus\\nOur Traveller in his own sweet lay,\\nHis Crimean camp-song, hints to us,\\nThe lady said. So let it be\\nSing us a song, exclaimed all three.\\nShe smiled I can but marvel at your choice\\nTo hear our poet s words through my poor bor-\\nrowed voice.\\nHer window opens to the bay,\\nOn glistening light or misty gray.\\nAnd there at dawn and set of day\\nIn prayer she kneels.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0143.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "124 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nDeax Lord I she saith, to many a home\\nFrom wind and wave the wanderers come\\nI only see the tossing foam\\nOf stranger keels.\\nBlown out and in by summer gales,\\nThe stately ships, with crowded sails,\\nAnd sailors leaning o er their rails,\\nBefore me glide\\nThey come, they go, but nevermore,\\nSpice-laden from the Indian shore,\\nI see his swift-winged Isidore\\nThe waves divide.\\nO Thou with whom the night is day\\nAnd one the near and far away.\\nLook out on yon gray waste, and say\\nWhere lingers he.\\nAlive, perchance, on some lone beach\\nOr thirsty isle beyond the reach\\nOf man, he hears the mocking speech\\nOf wind and sea.\\nO dread and cruel deep, reveal\\nThe secret which thy waves conceal.\\nAnd, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel\\nAnd tell your tale.\\nLet winds that tossed his raven hair\\nA message from my lost one bear,\\nSome thought of me, a last fond prayer\\nOr dying wail", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0144.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 125\\nCome, with your dreariest truth shut out\\nThe fears that haunt me round about\\nO God I cannot bear this doubt\\nThat stifles breath.\\nThe worst is better than the dread\\nGive me but leave to mourn my dead\\nAsleep in trust and hope, instead\\nOf life in death 1\\nIt might have been the evening breeze\\nThat whispered in the garden trees,\\nIt might have been the sound of seas\\nThat rose and fell\\nBut, with her heart, if not her ear.\\nThe old loved voice she seemed to hear\\nI wait to meet thee be of cheer,\\nFor all is well!\\nThe sweet voice into silence went,\\nA silence which was almost pain\\nAs through it rolled the long lament,\\nThe cadence of the mournful main.\\nGlancing his written pages o*er.\\nThe Eeader tried his part once more\\nLeaving the land of hackmatack and pine\\nFor Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0145.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "126 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nTHE BROTHER OF MERCY\\nPiERO LucA, known of all the town\\nAs the gray porter by the Pitti wall\\nWhere the noon shadows of the gardens fall,\\nSick and in dolor, waited to lay down\\nHis last sad burden, and beside his mat\\nThe barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.\\nUnseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,\\nSoft sunset lights through green Val d* Arno\\nsifted\\nUnheard, below the living shuttles shifted\\nBackward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,\\nIn mirth or pain, the mottled web of life\\nBut when at last came upward from the street\\nTinkle of bell and tread of measured feet.\\nThe sick man started, strove to rise in vain.\\nSinking back heavily with a moan of pain.\\nAnd the monk said, T is but the Brotherhood\\nOf Mercy going on some errand good\\nTheir black masks by the palace-wall I see.\\nPiero answered faintly, Woe is me\\nThis day for the first time in forty years\\nIn vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,\\nCalling me with my brethren of the mask.\\nBeggar and prince alike, to some new task\\nOf love or pity, haply from the street\\nTo bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet\\nHushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,\\nTo tread the crowded lazaretto s floors.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0146.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "THE BROTHER OF MERCY 127\\nDown the long twilight of the corridors,\\nMidst tossing arms and faces full of pain.\\nI loved the work it was its own reward.\\nI never counted on it to offset\\nMy sins, which are many, or make less my debt\\nTo the free grace and mercy of our Lord\\nBut somehow, father, it has come to be\\nIn these long years so much a part of me,\\nI should not know myself, if lacking it.\\nBut with the work the worker too would die,\\nAnd in my place some other self would sit\\nJoyful or sad, what matters, if not I?\\nAnd now all s over. Woe is me My son,\\nThe monk said soothingly, thy work is done\\nAnd no more as a servant, but the guest\\nOf God, thou enterest thy eternal rest.\\nNo toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost.\\nShall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down\\nClad in white robes, and wear a golden crown\\nForever and forever. Piero tossed\\nOn his sick-pillow Miserable me\\nI am too poor for such grand company\\nThe crown would be too heavy for this gray\\nOld head and God forgive me if I say\\nIt would be hard to sit there night and day.\\nLike an image in the Tribune, doing naught\\nWith these hard hands, that all my life have\\nwrought,\\nNot for bread only, but for pity s sake.\\nI m dull at prayers I could not keep awake.\\nCounting my beads. Mine s but a crazy head,\\nScarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0147.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "128 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nAnd if one goes to heaven without a heart,\\nGod knows he leaves behind his better part.\\nI love my fellow-men the worst I know\\nI would do good to. Will death change me so\\nThat I shall sit among the lazy saints,\\nTurning a deaf ear to the sore complaints\\nOf souls that su:ffer? Why, I never yet\\nLeft a poor dog in the strada hard beset,\\nOr ass overladen I Must I rate man less\\nThan dog or ass, in holy selfishness\\nMe thinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin\\nThe world of pain were better, if therein\\nOne s heart might still be human, and desires\\nOf natural pity drop upon its fires\\nSome cooling tears.\\nThereat the pale monk crossed\\nHis brow, and muttering, Madman! thou art\\nlost I\\nTook up his pyx and fled and, left alone,\\nThe sick man closed his eyes with a great groan.\\nThat sank into a prayer, Thy will be done 1\\nThen was he made aware, by soul or ear.\\nOf somewhat pure and holy bending o er him.\\nAnd of a voice like that of her who bore him.\\nTender and most compassionate Never fear\\nFor heaven is love, as God himself is love\\nThy work below shall be thy work above.\\nAnd when he looked, lo in the stern monk s\\nplace\\nHe saw the shining of an angeFs face I", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0148.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "THE CHANGELING 129\\nThe Traveller broke the pause. I ve seen\\nThe Brothers down the long street steal,\\nBlack, silent, masked, the crowd between,\\nAnd felt to doff my hat and kneel\\nWith heart, if not with knee, in prayer.\\nFor blessings on their pious care.\\nThe Reader wiped his glasses Friends of mine,\\nWe 11 try our home-brewed next, instead of for-\\neign wine.\\nTHE CHANGELING\\nFor the fairest maid in Hampton\\nThey needed not to search.\\nWho saw young Anna Favor\\nCome walking into church,\\nOr bringing from the meadows,\\nAt set of harvest-day.\\nThe frolic of the blackbirds.\\nThe sweetness of the hay.\\nNow the weariest of all mothers.\\nThe saddest two years* bride.\\nShe scowls in the face of her husband,\\nAnd spurns her child aside.\\nRake out the red coals, goodman,\\nFor there the child shall lie.\\nTill the black witch comes to fetch her\\nAnd both up chimney fly.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0149.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "130 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nIt s never my own little daughter,\\nIt s never my own, she said;\\nThe witches have stolen my Anna,\\nAnd left me an imp instead.\\nOh, fair and sweet was my baby,\\nBlue eyes, and hair of gold\\nBut this is ugly and wrinkled,\\nCross, and cunning, and old.\\nI hate the touch of her fingers,\\nI hate the feel of her skin\\nIt s not the milk from my bosom.\\nBut my blood, that she sucks in.\\nMy face grows sharp with the torment\\nLook my arms are skin and bone i\\nBake open the red coals, goodman,\\nAnd the witch shall have her own.\\nShe 11 come when she hears it crying.\\nIn the shape of an owl or bat,\\nAnd she 11 bring us our darling Anna\\nIn place of her screeching brat.\\nThen the goodman, Ezra Dalton,\\nLaid his hand upon her head\\nThy sorrow is great, O woman I\\nI sorrow with thee, he said.\\nThe paths to trouble are many,\\nAnd never but one sure way", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0150.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "THE CHANGELING 131\\nLeads out to the light beyond it\\nMy poor wife, let us pray.\\nThen he said to the great All-Father,\\nThy daughter is weak and blind\\nLet her sight come back, and clothe her\\nOnce more in her right mind.\\nLead her out of this evil shadow,\\nOut of these fancies wild\\nLet the holy love of the mother\\nTurn again to her child.\\nMake her lips like the lips of Mary\\nKissing her blessed Son\\nLet her hands, like the hands of Jesus^\\nEest on her little one.\\nComfort the soul of thy handmaid.\\nOpen her prison-door.\\nAnd thine shall be all the glory\\nAnd praise f orevermore.\\nThen into the face of its mother\\nThe baby looked up and smiled;\\nAnd the cloud of her soul was lifted.\\nAnd she knew her little child.\\nA beam of the slant west sunshine\\nMade the wan face almost fair,\\nLit the blue eyes* patient wonder\\nAnd the rings of pale gold hair.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0151.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "132 THE TENT 01^ THE BEACH\\nShe kissed it on lip and forehead,\\nShe kissed it on cheek and chin,\\nAnd she bared her snow-white bosom\\nTo the lips so pale and thin.\\nOh, fair on her bridal morning\\nWas the maid who blushed and smiled,\\nBut fairer to Ezra Dalton\\nLooked the mother of his child.\\nWith more than a lover s fondness\\nHe stooped to her worn young face,\\nAnd the nursing child and the mother\\nHe folded in one embrace.\\nBlessed be God he murmured,\\nBlessed be God I she said\\nFor I see, who once was blinded,\\nI live, who once was dead.\\nNow mount and ride, my goodman,\\nAs thou lovest thy own soul\\nWoe s me, if my wicked fancies\\nBe the death of Goody Cole\\nHis horse he saddled and bridled.\\nAnd into the night rode he,\\nNow through the great black woodland,\\nNow by the white-beached sea.\\nHe rode through the silent clearings,\\nHe came to the ferry wide,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0152.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "THE CHANGELING 133\\nAnd thrice he called to the boatman\\nAsleep on the other side.\\nHe set his horse to the river,\\nHe swam to Newbury town,\\nAnd he called up Justice Sewall\\nIn his nightcap and his gown.\\nAnd the grave and worshipful justice\\n(Upon whose soul be peace\\nSet his name to the jailer s warrant\\nFor Goodwife Cole s release.\\nThen through the night the hoof-beats\\nWent sounding like a flail\\nAnd Goody Cole at cockcrow\\nCame forth from Ipswich jail.\\nHere is a rhyme I hardly dare\\nTo venture on its theme worn out\\nWhat seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr\\nSounds simply silly hereabout\\nAnd pipes by lips Arcadian blown\\nAre only tin horns at our own.\\nYet still the muse of pastoral walks with us,\\nWhile Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0153.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "134 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nTHE MAIDS OF ATTITASH\\nAttitash, an Indian word signifying huckleberry, is\\nthe name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part\\nof Amesbury. [In a letter to Mr. Fields, Whittier wrote\\nI should like to show thee Attitash, as it is as pretty as\\nSt. Mary s Lake which Wordsworth sings, in fact a great\\ndeal prettier. The glimpse of the Pawtuckaway range of\\nmountains in Nottingham seen across it is very fine, and it\\nhas noble groves of pines and maples and ash trees.\\nIn sky and wave the white clouds swam,\\nAnd the blue hills of Nottingham\\nThrough gaps of leafy green\\nAcross the lake were seen,\\nWhen, in the shadow of the ash\\nThat dreams its dream in Attitash,\\nIn the warm summer weather.\\nTwo maidens sat together.\\nThey sat and watched in idle mood\\nThe gleam and shade of lake and wood\\nThe beach the keen light smote,\\nThe white sail of a boat\\nSwan flocks of lilies shoreward lying.\\nIn sweetness, not in music, dying\\nHardback, and virgin s-bower,\\nAnd white-spiked clethra-flower.\\nWith careless ears they heard the plash\\nAnd breezy wash of Attitash,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0154.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH 135\\nThe wood-bird s plaintive cry,\\nThe locust s sharp reply.\\nAnd teased the while, with playful hand^\\nThe shaggy dog of Newfoundland,\\nWhose uncouth frolic spilled\\nTheir baskets berry-filled.\\nThen one, the beauty of whose eyes\\nWas evermore a great surprise,\\nTossed back her queenly head.\\nAnd lightly laughing, said\\nNo bridegroom s hand be mine to hold\\nThat is not lined with yellow gold\\nI tread no cottage-floor\\nI own no lover poor.\\nMy love must come on silken wings,\\nWith bridal lights of diamond rings,\\nNot foul with kitchen smirch.\\nWith tallow-dip for torch.\\nThe other, on whose modest head\\nWas lesser dower of beauty shed,\\nWith look for home-hearths meet,\\nAnd voice exceeding sweet,\\nAnswered, We will not rivals be\\nTake thou the gold, leave love to me\\nMine be the cottage small.\\nAnd thine the rich man s hall.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0155.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "136 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nI know, indeed, that wealth is good\\nBut lowly roof and simple food.\\nWith love that hath no doubt,\\nAre more than gold without.\\nHard by a farmer hale and young\\nHis cradle in the rye-field swung,\\nTracking the yellow plain\\nWith windrows of ripe grain.\\nAnd still, whene er he paused to whet\\nHis scythe, the sidelong glance he met\\nOf large dark eyes, where strove\\nFalse pride and secret love.\\nBe strong, young mower of the grain\\nThat love shall overmatch disdain,\\nIt3 instincts soon or late\\nThe heart shall vindicate.\\nIn blouse of gray, with fishing-rod.\\nHalf screened by leaves, a stranger trod\\nThe margin of the pond.\\nWatching the group beyond.\\nThe supreme hours unnoted come\\nUnf elt the turning tides of doom\\nAnd so the maids laughed on,\\nNor dreamed what fate had done,\\nNor knew the step was Destiny s\\nThat rustled in the birchen trees,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0156.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH 137\\nAs, with their lives forecast,\\nFisher and mower passed.\\nErelong by lake and rivulet side\\nThe summer roses paled and died,\\nAnd Autumn s fingers shed\\nThe maple s leaves of red.\\nThrough the long gold-hazed afternoon,\\nAlone, but for the diving loon,\\nThe partridge in the brake,\\nThe black duck on the lake,\\nBeneath the shadow of the ash\\nSat man and maid by Attitash\\nAnd earth and air made room\\nFor human hearts to bloom.\\nSoft spread the carpets of the sod,\\nAnd scarlet-oak and golden-rod\\nWith blushes and with smiles\\nLit up the forest aisles.\\nThe mellow light the lake aslant,\\nThe pebbled margin s ripple-chant\\nAttempered and low-toned.\\nThe tender mystery owned.\\nAnd through the dream the lovers dreamed\\nSweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed\\nThe sunshine seemed to bless,\\nThe air was a caress.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0157.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "138 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nNot she who lightly laughed is there,\\nWith scornful toss of midnight hair,\\nHer dark, disdainful eyes,\\nAnd proud lip worldly-wise.\\nHer haughty vow is still unsaid,\\nBut all she dreamed and coveted\\nWears, half to her surprise,\\nThe youthful farmer s guise\\nWith more than all her old-time pride\\nShe walks the rye-field at his side,\\nCareless of cot or hall,\\nSince love transfigures all.\\nRich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground\\nOf life is gained her hands have found\\nThe talisman of old\\nThat changes all to gold.\\nWhile she who could for love dispense\\nWith all its glittering accidents,\\nAnd trust her heart alone.\\nFinds love and gold her own.\\nWhat wealth can buy or art can build\\nAwaits her but her cup is filled\\nEven now unto the brim\\nHer world is love and him", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0158.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "THE TENT ON THE BEACH 139\\nThe while he heard, the Book-man drew\\nA length of make-believing face,\\nWith smothered mischief laughing through\\nWhy, you shall sit in Ramsay s place,\\nAnd, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep\\nOn Yankee hills immortal sheep,\\nWhile love-lorn swains and maids the seas be-\\nyond\\nHold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond.\\nThe Traveller laughed Sir Galahad\\nSinging of love the Trouvere s lay I\\nHow should he know the blindfold lad\\nFrom one of Vulcan s forge-boys Nay,\\nHe better sees who stands outside\\nThan they who in procession ride,\\nThe reader answered selectmen and squire\\nMiss, while they make^ the show that wayside\\nfolks admire.\\nHere is a wild tale of the North,\\nOur travelled friend will own as one\\nFit for a Norland Christmas hearth\\nAnd lips of Christian Andersen.\\nThey tell it in the valleys green\\nOf the fair island he has seen.\\nLow lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,\\nWashed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsi-\\nnore.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0159.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "140 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nKALLUNDBORG CHURCH\\nTie stille, barn min\\nImorgen kommer Fin,\\nFa er din,\\nOg gi*er dig Esbern Snares oine og hjerte at lege med!\\nZealand Rhyme,\\nBuild at Kallundborg by the sea\\nA church as stately as church may be,\\nAnd there thou shalt wed my daughter fair,\\nSaid the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.\\nAnd the Baron laughed. But Esbern said,\\nThough I lose my soul, I will Helva wed\\nAnd off he strode, in his pride of will.\\nTo the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill.\\nBuild, O Troll, a church for me\\nAt Kallundborg by the mighty sea\\nBuild it stately, and build it fair.\\nBuild it quickly, said Esbern Snare.\\nBut the sly Dwarf said, No work is wrought\\nBy Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught.\\nWhat wilt thou give for thy church so fair\\nSet thy own price, quoth Esbern Snare.\\nWhen Kallundborg church is builded well,\\nThou must the name of its builder tell.\\nOr thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon.\\nBuild, said Esbern, and build it soon.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0160.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "KALLUNDBORG CHURCH 141\\nBy night and by day the Troll wrought on\\nHe hewed the timbers, he piled the stone\\nBut day by day, as the walls rose fair,\\nDarker and sadder grew Esbern Snare.\\nHe listened by night, he watched by day,\\nHe sought and thought, but he dared not pray\\nIn vain he called on the Elle-maids shy.\\nAnd the Neck and the Ms gave no reply.\\nOf his evil bargain far and wide\\nA rumor ran through the country-side\\nAnd Helva of Nesvek, young and fair,\\nPrayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.\\nAnd now the church was wellnigh done\\nOne pillar it lacked, and one alone\\nAnd the grim Troll muttered, Fool thou art I\\nTo-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart\\nBy Kallundborg in black despair,\\nThrough wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare,\\nTill, worn and weary, the strong man sank\\nUnder the birches on Ulshoi bank.\\nAt his last day*s work he heard the Troll\\nHammer and delve in the quarry s hole\\nBefore him the church stood large and fair\\nI have builded my tomb, said Esbern Snare.\\nAnd he closed his eyes the sight to hide,\\nWhen he heard a light step at his side", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0161.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "142 THE TENT Olsr THE BEACH\\nO Esbern Snare a sweet voice said,\\nWould I might die now in thy stead\\nWith a grasp by love and by fear made strong,\\nHe held her fast, and he held her long\\nWith the beating heart of a bird afeard,\\nShe hid her face in his flame-red beard.\\nO love he cried, let me look to-day\\nIn thine eyes ere mine are plucked away\\nLet me hold thee close, let them feel thy heart\\nEre mine by the Troll is torn apart I\\nI sinned, O Helva, for love of thee\\nPray that the Lord Christ pardon me\\nBut fast as she prayed, and faster still,\\nHammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill.\\nHe knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart\\nWas somehow baffling his evil art\\nFor more than spell of Elf or Troll\\nIs a maiden s prayer for her lover s soul.\\nAnd Esbern listened, and caught the sound\\nOf a Troll-wife singing underground\\nTo-morrow comes Fine, father thine\\nLie still and hush thee, baby mine 1\\nLie still, my darling next sunrise\\nThou It play with Esbern Snare s heart and\\neyes\\nHo ho quoth Esbern, is that your game\\nThanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name 1", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0162.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "KALLUNDBORG CHURCH 143\\nThe Troll he heard him, and hurried on\\nTo Kallundborg church with the lacking stone.\\nToo late, Gaffer Fine cried Esbern Snare\\nAnd Troll and pillar vanished in air 1\\nThat night the harvesters heard the sound\\nOf a woman sobbing underground,\\nAnd the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame\\nOf the careless singer who told his name.\\nOf the Troll of the Church they sing the rune\\nBy the ISTorthern Sea in the harvest moon\\nAnd the fishers of Zealand hear him still\\nScolding his wife in Ulshoi hill.\\nAnd seaward over its groves of birch\\nStill looks the tower of Kallundborg church,\\nWhere, first at its altar, a wedded pair.\\nStood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare\\nWhat, asked the Traveller, would our sires,\\nThe old Norse story-tellers, say\\nOf sun-graved pictures, ocean wires.\\nAnd smoking steamboats of to-day\\nAnd this, O lady, by your leave,\\nRecalls your song of yester eve\\nPray, let us have that Cable-hymn once more.\\nHear, hear the Book-man cried, the lady has\\nthe floor.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0163.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "144 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nThese noisy waves below perhaps\\nTo such a strain will lend their ear,\\nWith softer voice and lighter lapse\\nCome stealing up the sands to hear,\\nAnd what they once refused to do\\nFor old King Knut accord to you.\\nNay, even the fishes shall your listeners be.\\nAs once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony.\\nTHE CABLE HYMN\\nO LONELY bay of Trinity,\\nO dreary shores, give ear\\nLean down unto the white-lipped sea,\\nThe voice of God to hear 1\\nFrom world to world His couriers fly,\\nThought-winged and shod with fire\\nThe angel of His stormy sky\\nRides down the sunken wire.\\nWhat saith the herald of the Lord\\nThe world s long strife is done\\nClose wedded by that mystic cord.\\nIts continents are one.\\nAnd one in heart, as one in blood.\\nShall all her peoples be\\nThe hands of human brotherhood\\nAre clasped beneath the sea.\\nThrough Orient seas, o er Afric s plain\\nAnd Asian mountains borne,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0164.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "THE CABLE HYMN 145\\nThe vigor of the Northern brain\\nShall nerve the world outworn.\\nFrom clime to clime, from shore to shore,\\nShall thrill the magic thread\\nThe new Prometheus steals once more\\nThe fire that wakes the dead.\\nThrob on, strong pulse of thunder I beat\\nFrom answering beach to beach\\nFuse nations in thy kindly heat,\\nAnd melt the chains of each I\\nWild terror of the sky above,\\nGlide tamed and dumb below\\nBear gently, Ocean s carrier-dove,\\nThy errands to and fro.\\nWeave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,\\nBeneath the deep so far.\\nThe bridal robe of earth s accord,\\nThe funeral shroud of war\\nFor lo the fall of Ocean s wall\\nSpace mocked and time outrun\\nAnd round the world the thought of all\\nIs as the thought of one\\nThe poles unite, the zones agree,\\nThe tongues of striving cease\\nAs on the Sea of Galilee\\nThe Christ is whispering, Peace", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0165.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "146 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nGlad prophecy I to this at last,\\nThe Eeader said, shall all things come.\\nForgotten be the bugle s blast,\\nAnd battle-music of the drum.\\nA little while the world may run\\nIts old mad way, with needle-gun\\nAnd ironclad, but truth, at last, shall reign\\nThe cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain I\\nShifting his scattered papers, Here,\\nHe said, as died the faint applause,\\nIs something that I found last year\\nDown on the island known as Orr s.\\nI had it from a fair-haired girl\\nWho, oddly, bore the name of Pearl,\\n(As if by some droll freak of circumstance,)\\nClassic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe s ro-\\nmance.\\nTHE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL\\nWhat flecks the outer gray beyond\\nThe sundown s golden trail\\nThe white flash of a sea-bird s wing,\\nOr gleam of slanting sail\\nLet young eyes watch from Neck and Point,\\nAnd sea-worn elders pray,\\nThe ghost of what was once a ship\\nIs sailing up the bay\\nFrom gray sea-fog, from icy drift,\\nFrom peril and from pain,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0166.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL 147\\nThe home-bound fisher greets thy lights,\\nO hundred-harbored Maine\\nBut many a keel shall seaward turn,\\nAnd many a sail outstand,\\nWhen, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms\\nAgainst the dusk of land.\\nShe rounds the headland s bristling pines\\nShe threads the isle-set bay\\nNo spur of breeze can speed her on,\\nNor ebb of tide delay.\\nOld men still walk the Isle of Orr\\nWho tell her date and name.\\nOld shipwrights sit in Freeport yards\\nWho hewed her oaken frame.\\nWhat weary doom of baffled quest,\\nThou sad sea-ghost, is thine\\nWhat makes thee in the haunts of home\\nA wonder and a sign\\nNo foot is on thy silent deck.\\nUpon thy helm no hand\\nNo ripple hath the soundless wind\\nThat smites thee from the land\\nFor never comes the ship to port,\\nHowe er the breeze may be\\nJust when she nears the waiting shore\\nShe drifts again to sea.\\nNo tack of sail, nor turn of helm,\\nNor sheer of veering side\\nStern-fore she drives to sea and night,\\nAgainst the wind and tide.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0167.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "148 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nIn vain o er Harpswell Neck the star\\nOf evening guides her in\\nIn vain for her the lamps are lit\\nWithin thy tower, Seguin\\nIn vain the harbor-boat shall hail,\\nIn vain the pilot call\\nNo hand shall reef her spectral sail,\\nOr let her anchor fall.\\nShake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,\\nYour gray-head hints of ill\\nAnd, over sick-beds whispering low,\\nYour prophecies fulfil.\\nSome home amid yon birchen trees\\nShall drape its door with woe\\nAnd slowly where the Dead Ship sails.\\nThe burial boat shall row 1\\nFrom Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,\\nFrom island and from main.\\nFrom sheltered cove and tided creek,\\nShall glide the funeral train.\\nThe dead-boat with the bearers four,\\nThe mourners at her stern,\\nAnd one shall go the silent way\\nWho shall no more return\\nAnd men shall sigh, and women weep,\\nWhose dear ones pale and pine,\\nAnd sadly over sunset seas\\nAwait the ghostly sign.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0168.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "THE PALATINE 14^\\nThey know not that its sails are filled\\nBy pity s tender breath,\\nNor see the Angel at the helm\\nWho steers the Ship of Death I\\nChill as a down-east breeze should be,\\nThe Book-man said. A ghostly touch\\nThe legend has. I m glad to see\\nYour flying Yankee beat the Dutch,*\\nWell, here is something of the sort\\nWhich one midsummer day I caught\\nIn Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish.\\nWe wait, the Traveller said serve hot or cold\\nyour dish.\\nTHE PALATINE\\nBlock Island in Long Island Sound, called by the Indians\\nManisees, the isle of the little god, was the scene of a tragic\\nincident a hundred years or more ago, when The Palatine^\\nan emigrant ship bound for Philadelphia, driven ofE its\\ncourse, came upon the coast at this point. A mutiny on\\nboard, followed by an inhuman desertion on the part of the\\ncrew, had brought the unhappy passengers to the verge of\\nstarvation and madness. Tradition says that wreckers on\\nshore, after rescuing all but one of the survivors, set fire to\\nthe vessel, which was driven out to sea before a gale which\\nhad sprung up. Every twelvemonth, according to the same\\ntradition, the spectacle of a ship on fire is visible to the in-\\nhabitants of the island.\\nLeagues north, as fly the gull and auk,\\nPoint Judith watches with eye of hawk\\nLeagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk I", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0169.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "150 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nLonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken,\\nWith never a tree for Spring to waken.\\nFor tryst of lovers or farewells taken,\\nCircled by waters that never freeze.\\nBeaten by billow and swept by breeze,\\nLieth the island of Manisees,\\nSet at the mouth of the Sound to hold\\nThe coast lights up on its turret old,\\nYellow with moss and sea-fog mould.\\nDreary the land when gust and sleet\\nAt its doors and windows howl and beat.\\nAnd Winter laughs at its fires of peat\\nBut in summer time, when pool and pond.\\nHeld in the laps of valleys fond,\\nAre blue as the glimpses of sea beyond\\nWhen the hills are sweet with the brier-rose,\\nAnd, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose\\nFlowers the mainland rarely knows\\nWhen boats to their morning fishing go.\\nAnd, held to the wind and slanting low.\\nWhitening and darkening the small sails show,\\nThen is that lonely island fair\\nAnd the pale health-seeker findeth there\\nThe wine of life in its pleasant air.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0170.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "THE PALATINE 151\\nNo greener valleys the sun invite,\\nOn smoother beaches no sea-birds light,\\nNo blue waves shatter to foam more white I\\nThere, circling ever their narrow range,\\nQuaint tradition and legend strange\\nLive on unchallenged, and know no change.\\nOld wives spinning their web of tow,\\nOr rocking weirdly to and fro\\nIn and out of the peat s dull glow.\\nAnd old men mending their nets of twine,\\nTalk together of dream and sign,\\nTalk of the lost ship Palatine,\\nThe ship that, a hundred years before.\\nFreighted deep with its goodly store.\\nIn the gales of the equinox went ashore.\\nThe eager islanders one by one\\nCounted the shots of her signal gun.\\nAnd heard the crash when she drove right on I\\nInto the teeth of death she sped\\n(May God forgive the hands that fed\\nThe false lights over the rocky Head\\nO men and brothers what sights were there\\nWhite upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer 1\\nWhere waves had pity, could ye not spare", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0171.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "152 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nDown swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey\\nTearing the heart of the ship away,\\nAnd the dead had never a word to say*\\nAnd then, with ghastly shimmer and shine\\nOver the rocks and the seething brine,\\nThey burned the wreck of the Palatine.\\nIn their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped,\\nThe sea and the rocks are dumb, they said\\nThere 11 be no reckoning with the dead.\\nBut the year went round, and when once more\\nAlong their foam-white curves of shore\\nThey heard the line-storm rave and roar,\\nBehold I again, with shimmer and shine,\\nOver the rocks and the seething brine,\\nThe flaming wreck of the Palatine\\nSo, haply in fitter words than these.\\nMending their nets on their patient knees,\\nThey tell the legend of Manisees.\\nNor looks nor tones a doubt betray\\nIt is known to us all, they quietly say\\nWe too have seen it in our day.\\nIs there, then, no death for a word once spoken\\nWas never a deed but left its token\\nWritten on tables never broken", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0172.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "THE PALATINE 153\\nDo the elements subtle reflections give\\nDo pictures of all the ages live\\nOn Nature s infinite negative,\\nWhich, half in sport, in malice half.\\nShe shows at times, with shudder or laugh,\\nPhantom and shadow in photograph\\nFor still, on many a moonless night,\\nFrom Kingston Head and from Montauk light\\nThe spectre kindles and burns in sight.\\nNow low and dim, now clear and higher,\\nLeaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire,\\nThen, slowly sinking, the flames expire.\\nAnd the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine,\\nReef their sails when they see the sign\\nOf the blazing wreck of the Palatine I\\nA fitter tale to scream than sing,\\nThe Book-man said. Well, fancy, then,\\nThe Reader answered, on the wing\\nThe sea-birds shriek it, not for men,\\nBut in the ear of wave and breeze\\nThe Traveller mused Your Manisees\\nIs fairy-land off Narragansett shore\\nWho ever saw the isle or heard its name before\\nT is some strange land of Flyaway,\\nWhose dreamy shore the ship beguiles,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0173.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "154 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nSt. Brandan s in its sea-mist gray,\\nOr sunset loom of Fortunate Isles\\nNo ghost, but solid turf and rock\\nIs the good island known as Block,\\nThe Reader said. For beauty and for ease\\nI chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees\\nBut let it pass here is a bit\\nOf unrhymed story, with a hint\\nOf the old preaching mood in it.\\nThe sort of sidelong moral squint\\nOur friend objects to, which has grown,\\nI fear, a habit of my own.\\nT was written when the Asian plague drew near,\\nAnd the land held its breath and paled with sud-\\nden fear.*\\nABRAHAM DAVENPORT\\nThe famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780,\\nwas a physical puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but\\nits occurrence brought something more than philosophical\\nspeculation into the minds of those who passed through it.\\nThe incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport s sturdy pro-\\ntest is a matter of history.\\nIn the old days (a custom laid aside\\nWith breeches and cocked hats) the people sent\\nTheir wisest men to make the public laws.\\nAnd so, from a brown homestead, where the\\nSound\\nDrinks the small tribute of the Mianas,", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0174.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "ABRAHAM DAVENPORT 155\\nWaved over by the woods of Rippowams,\\nAnd hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,\\nStamford sent up to the councils of the State\\nWisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.\\nT was on a May-day of the far old year\\nSeventeen hundred eighty, that there fell\\nOver the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,\\nOver the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,\\nA horror of great darkness, like the night\\nIn day of which the Norland sagas tell,\\nThe Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky\\nWas black with ominous clouds, save where its rim\\nWas fringed with a dull glow, like that which\\nclimbs\\nThe crater s sides from the red hell below.\\nBirds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls\\nRoosted the cattle at the pasture bars\\nLowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern\\nwings\\nFlitted abroad the sounds of labor died\\nMen prayed, and women wept all ears grew\\nsharp\\nTo hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter\\nThe black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ\\nMight look from the rent clouds, not as he looked\\nA loving guest at Bethany, but stern\\nAs Justice and inexorable Law.\\nMeanwhile in the old State House, dim as\\nghosts.\\nSat the lawgivers of Connecticut,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0175.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "156 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nTrembling beneath their legislative robes.\\nIt is the Lord s Great Day Let us adjourn,\\nSome said and then, as if with one accord.\\nAll eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.\\nHe rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice\\nThe intolerable hush. This well may be\\nThe Day of Judgment which the world awaits\\nBut be it so or not, I only know\\nMy present duty, and my Lord s command\\nTo occupy till He come. So at the post\\nWhere He hath set me in His providence,\\nI choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,\\nNo faithless servant frightened from my task.\\nBut ready when the Lord of the harvest calls\\nAnd therefore, with all reverence, I would say.\\nLet God do His work, we will see to ours.\\nBring in the candles. And they brought them\\nThen by the flaring lights the Speaker read,\\nAlbeit with husky voice and shaking hands,\\nAn act to amend an act to regulate\\nThe shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon\\nWisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,\\nStraight to the question, with no figures of speech\\nSave the ten Arab signs, yet not without\\nThe shrewd dry humor natural to the man\\nHis awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,\\nBetween the pauses of his argument.\\nTo hear the thunder of the wrath of God\\nBreak from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0176.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "ABKAHAM DAVENPORT 157\\nAnd there he stands in memory to this day,\\nErect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen\\nAgainst the background of unnatural dark,\\nA witness to the ages as they pass,\\nThat simple duty hath no place for fear.\\nHe ceased just then the ocean seemed\\nTo lift a half -faced moon in sight\\nAnd, shore-ward, o er the waters gleamed,\\nFrom crest to crest, a line of light,\\nSuch as of old, with solemn awe,\\nThe fishers by Gennesaret saw.\\nWhen dry-shod o er it walked the Son of God,\\nTracking the waves with light where er his san-\\ndals trod.\\nSilently for a space each eye\\nUpon that sudden glory turned\\nCool from the land the breeze blew by,\\nThe tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned\\nIts waves to foam on either hand\\nStretched, far as sight, the hills of sand\\nWith bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree.\\nThe wood s black shore-line loomed beyond the\\nmeadowy sea.\\nThe lady rose to leave. One song,\\nOr hymn, they urged, before we part.\\nAnd she, with lips to which belpng\\nSweet intuitions of all art,", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0177.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "158 THE TENT ON THE BEACH\\nGave to the winds of night a strain\\nWhich they who heard would hear again\\nAnd to her voice the solemn ocean lent,\\nTouching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.\\nTHE WORSHIP OF NATURE\\nThe harp at Nature s advent strung\\nHas never ceased to play\\nThe song the stars of morning sung\\nHas never died away.\\nAnd prayer is made, and praise is given,\\nBy all things near and far\\nThe ocean looketh up to heaven,\\nAnd mirrors every star.\\nIts waves are kneeling on the strand.\\nAs kneels the human knee.\\nTheir white locks bowing to the sand.\\nThe priesthood of the sea\\nThey pour their glittering treasures forth,\\nTheir gifts of pearl they bring,\\nAnd all the listening hills of earth\\nTake up the song they sing.\\nThe green earth sends her incense up\\nFrom many a mountain shrine\\nFrom folded leaf and dewy cup\\nShe pours her sacred wine.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0178.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "THE WORSHIP OF NATURE 159\\nThe mists above the morning rills\\nRise white as wings of prayer\\nThe altar-curtains of the hills\\nAre sunset s purple air.\\nThe winds with hymns of praise are loud,\\nOr low with sobs of pain,\\nThe thunder-organ of the cloud,\\nThe dropping tears of rain.\\nWith drooping head and branches crossed\\nThe twilight forest grieves,\\nOr speaks with tongues of Pentecost\\nFrom all its sunlit leaves.\\nThe blue sky is the temple s arch,\\nIts transept earth and air,\\nThe music of its starry march\\nThe chorus of a prayer.\\nSo Nature keeps the reverent frame\\nWith which her years began.\\nAnd all her signs and voices shame\\nThe prayerless heart of man.\\nThe singer ceased. The moon s white rays\\nFell on the rapt, still face of her.\\nAllah it Allah I He hath praise\\nFrom all things, said the Traveller.\\nOft from the desert s silent nights.\\nAnd mountain hymns of sunset lights.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0179.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "160 EGO\\nMy heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent\\nThe Moslem s prayer has shamed my Christian\\nknee unbent.\\nHe paused, and lo far, faint, and slow\\nThe bells in Newbury s steeples tolled\\nThe twelve dead hours the lamp burned low\\nThe singer sought her canvas fold.\\nOne sadly said, At break of day\\nWe strike our tent and go our way.\\nBut one made answer cheerily, jN ever fear.\\nWe 11 pitch this tent of ours in type another year.\\nEGO\\nWRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OP A FRIEND\\nON page of thine I cannot trace\\nThe cold and heartless commonplace,\\nA statue s fixed and marble grace.\\nFor ever as these lines I penned.\\nStill with the thought of thee will blend\\nThat of some loved and common friend,\\nWho in life s desert track has made\\nHis pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed\\nBeneath the same remembered shade.\\nAnd hence my pen unfettered moves\\nIn freedom which the heart approves,\\nThe negligence which friendship loves.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0180.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "EGO 161\\nAnd wilt thou prize my poor gift less\\nFor simple air and rustic dress,\\nAnd sign of haste and carelessness\\nOh, more than specious counterfeit\\nOf sentiment or studied wit,\\nA heart like thine should value it.\\nYet half I fear my gift will be\\nUnto thy book, if not to thee.\\nOf more than doubtful courtesy.\\nA banished name from Fashion s sphere,\\nA lay unheard of Beauty s ear.\\nForbid, disowned, what do they here\\nUpon my ear not all in vain\\nCame the sad captive s clanking chain,\\nThe groaning from his bed of pain.\\nAnd sadder still, I saw the woe\\nWhich only wounded spirits know\\nWhen Pride s strong footsteps o er them go.\\nSpurned not alone in walks abroad,\\nBut from the temples of the Lord\\nThrust out apart, like things abhorred.\\nDeep as I felt, and stern and strong,\\nIn words which Prudence smothered long,\\nMy soul spoke out against the wrong", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0181.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "162 EGO\\nNot mine alone the task to speak\\nOf comfort to the poor and weak,\\nAnd dry the tear on Sorrow s cheek;\\nBut, mingled in the conflict warm,\\nTo pour the fiery breath of storm\\nThrough the harsh trumpet of Kef orm\\nTo brave Opinion s settled frown.\\nFrom ermined robe and saintly gown.\\nWhile wrestling reverenced Error down.\\nFounts gushed beside my pilgrim way,\\nCool shadows on the greensward lay.\\nFlowers swung upon the bending spray.\\nAnd, broad and bright, on either hand.\\nStretched the green slopes of Fairy-land,\\nWith Hope s eternal sunbow spanned;\\nWhence voices called me like the flow.\\nWhich on the listener s ear will grow,\\nOf forest streamlets soft and low.\\nAnd gentle eyes, which still retain\\nTheir picture on the heart and brain.\\nSmiled, beckoning from that path of pain.\\nIn vain nor dream, nor rest, nor pause\\nEemain for him who round him draws\\nThe battered mail of Freedom s cause.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0182.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "EGO 163\\nFrom youthful hopes, from each green spot\\nOf young Romance, and gentle Thought,\\nWhere storm and tumult enter not\\nFrom each fair altar, where belong\\nThe offerings Love requires of Song\\nIn homage to her bright-eyed throng;\\nWith soul and strength, with heart and hand,\\nI turned to Freedom s struggling band.\\nTo the sad Helots of our land.\\nWhat marvel then that Fame should turn\\nHer notes of praise to those of scorn\\nHer gifts reclaimed, her smiles withdrawn\\nWhat matters it a few years more,\\nLife s surge so restless heretofore\\nShall break upon the unknown shore I\\nIn that far land shall disappear\\nThe shadows which we follow here.\\nThe mist-wreaths of our atmosphere\\nBefore no work of mortal hand.\\nOf human will or strength expand\\nThe pearl gates of the Better Land\\nAlone in that great love which gave\\nLife to the sleeper of the grave,\\nResteth the power to seek and save.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0183.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "164: EGO\\nYet, if the spirit gazing through\\nThe vista of the past can view\\nOne deed to Heaven and virtue true\\nIf through the wreck of wasted powers,\\nOf garlands wreathed from Folly s bowers,\\nOf idle aims and misspent hours,\\nThe eye can note one sacred spot\\nBy Pride and Self profaned not,\\nA green place in the waste of thought,\\nWhere deed or word hath rendered less\\nThe sum of human wretchedness.\\nAnd Gratitude looks forth to bless\\nThe simple burst of tenderest feeling\\nFrom sad hearts worn by evil-dealing,\\nFor blessing on the hand of healing\\nBetter than Glory s pomp will be\\nThat green and blessed spot to me,\\nA palm-shade in Eternity 1\\nSomething of Time which may invite\\nThe purified and spiritual sight\\nTo rest on with a calm delight.\\nAnd when the summer winds shall sweep\\nWith their light wings my place of sleep.\\nAnd mosses round my headstone creep", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0184.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "EGO 165\\nIf still, as Freedom s rallying sign,\\nUpon the young heart s altars shine\\nThe very fires they caught from mine\\nIf words my lips once uttered still,\\nIn the calm faith and steadfast will\\nOf other hearts, their work fulfil\\nPerchance with joy the soul may learn\\nThese tokens, and its eye discern\\nThe fires which on those altars burn\\nA marvellous joy that even then,\\nThe spirit hath its life again,\\nIn the strong hearts of mortal men.\\nTake, lady, then, the gift I bring,\\nNo gay and graceful offering,\\nNo flower-smile of the laughing spring.\\nMidst the green buds of Youth s fresh May,\\nWith Fancy s leaf-enwoven bay,\\nMy sad and sombre gift I lay.\\nAnd if it deepens in thy mind\\nA sense of suffering human-kind,\\nThe outcast and the spirit-blind\\nOppressed and spoiled on every side,\\nBy Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride,\\nLife s common courtesies denied", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0185.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "166 MY PSALM\\nSad mothers mourning o er their trust,\\nChildren by want and misery nursed,\\nTasting life s bitter cup at first\\nK to their strong appeals which come\\nFrom fireless hearth, and crowded room,\\nAnd the close alley s noisome gloom,\\nThough dark the hands upraised to thee\\nIn mute beseeching agony,\\nThou lend st thy woman s sympathy\\nNot vainly on thy gentle shrine.\\nWhere Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine\\nTheir varied gifts, I offer mine.\\nMY PSALM\\nIMOURlSr no more my vanished years\\nBeneath a tender rain.\\nAn April rain of smiles and tears,\\nMy heart is young again.\\nThe west-winds blow, and, singing low,\\nI hear the glad streams run\\nThe windows of my soul I throw\\nWide open to the sun.\\nNo longer forward nor behind\\nI look in hope or fear\\nBut, grateful, take the good I find,\\nThe best of now and here.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0186.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "MY PSALM 167\\nI plough no more a desert land,\\nTo harvest weed and tare\\nThe manna dropping from God s hand\\nRebukes my painful care.\\nI break my pilgrim staff, I lay\\nAside the toiling oar\\nThe angel sought so far away\\nI welcome at my door.\\nThe airs of spring may never play\\nAmong the ripening corn,\\nNor freshness of the flowers of May\\nBlow through the autumn morn\\nYet shall the blue-eyed gentian look\\nThrough fringed lids to heaven,\\nAnd the pale aster in the brook\\nShall see its image given\\nThe woods shall wear their robes of praise,\\nThe south-wind softly sigh.\\nAnd sweet, calm days in golden haze\\nMelt down the amber sky.\\nNot less shall manly deed and word\\nRebuke an age of wrong\\nThe graven flowers that wreathe the sword\\nMake not the blade less strong.\\nBut smiting hands shall learn to heal,\\nTo build as to destroy", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0187.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "168 MY PSALM\\nNor less my heart for others feel\\nThat I the more enjoy.\\nAll as God wills, who wisely heeds\\nTo give or to withhold,\\nAnd knoweth more of all my needs\\nThan all my prayers have told\\nEnough that blessings undeserved\\nHave marked my erring track\\nThat wheresoe er my feet have swerved,\\nHis chastening turned me back\\nThat more and more a Providence\\nOf love is understood,\\nMaking the springs of time and sense\\nSweet with eternal good\\nThat death seems but a covered way\\nWhich opens into light.\\nWherein no blinded child can stray\\nBeyond the Father s sight\\nThat care and trial seem at last.\\nThrough Memory s sunset air,\\nLike mountain-ranges overpast.\\nIn purple distance fair\\nThat all the jarring notes of life\\nSeem blending in a psalm.\\nAnd all the angles of its strife\\nSlow rounding into calm.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0188.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "KESPONSE 169\\nAnd so the shadows fall apart,\\nAnd so the west-winds play\\nAnd all the windows of my heart\\nI open to the day.\\nRESPONSE\\nOn the occasion of my seventieth birthday, in 1877, I\\nwas the recipient of many tokens of esteem. The publish-\\ners of the Atlantic Monthly gave a dinner in my name, and\\nthe editor of The Literally World gathered in his paper\\nmany affectionate messages from my associates in literature\\nand the cause of human progress. The lines which follow\\nwere written in acknowledgment.\\nBESIDE that milestone where the level sun,\\nMgh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays\\nOn word and work irrevocably done.\\nLife s blending threads of good and ill outspun,\\nI hear, O friends! your words of cheer and\\npraise.\\nHalf doubtful if myself or otherwise.\\nLike him who, in the old Arabian joke,\\nA beggar slept and crowned CaHph woke.\\nThanks not the less. With not unglad surprise\\nI see my life-work through your partial eyes\\nAssured, in giving to my home-taught songs\\nA higher value than of right belongs.\\nYou do but read between the written lines\\nThe finer grace of unfulfilled designs.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0189.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "AT LAST\\n[Recited by one of the little group of relations, who stood\\nby the poet s bedside, as the last moment of his life ap-\\nproached.]\\nWHEN on my day of life the night is falling,\\nAnd, in the winds from unsunned spaces\\nblown,\\nI hear far voices out of darkness calling\\nMy feet to paths unknown,\\nThou who hast made my home of life so pleasant.\\nLeave not its tenant when its walls decay\\nLove Divine, O Helper ever present,\\nBe Thou my strength and stay\\nBe near me when all else is from me drifting\\nEarth, sky, home s pictures, days of shade and\\nshine,\\nAnd kindly faces to my own uplifting\\nThe love which answers mine.\\n1 have but Thee, my Father let Thy spirit\\nBe with me then to comfort and uphold\\nNo gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,\\nNor street of shining gold.\\nSuffice it if my good and ill unreckoned,\\nAnd both forgiven through Thy abounding\\ngrace\\nI find myself by hands familiar beckoned\\nUnto my fitting place.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0190.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "AT LAST 171\\nSome humble door among Thy many mansions,\\nSome sheltering shade where sin and striving\\ncease,\\nAnd flows forever through heaven s green expan-\\nsions\\nThe river of Thy peace.\\nThere, from the music round about me stealing,\\nI fain would learn the new and holy song.\\nAnd find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing,\\nThe life for which I long.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0191.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0192.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "NOTES", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0193.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0194.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "NOTES\\nPage 11, line 25. Ah, brother only I and thou,\\nMatthew Franklin Whittier, born July 4, 1812, died Janu-\\nary 7, 1883. In middle life, during his residence in Port-\\nland, he took a deep interest in the anti-slavery movement,\\nand wrote a series of caustic letters under the signature\\nEthan Spike of Hornby.\\nPage 12, line 25. The Chief of Gambia s golden shore.\\nThe African Chief was the title of a poem by Mrs. Sarah\\nWentworth Morton, wife of the Hon. Perez Morton, a for-\\nmer attorney-general of Massachusetts. Mrs. Morton s nam\\ndeplume was Philenia, The schoolbook in which The Afri-\\ncan Chief was printed was Caleb Bingham s The American\\nPreceptor, and the poem contained fifteen stanzas, of which\\nthe first four were as follows\\nSee how the black ship cleaves the main\\nHigh-bounding o er the violet wave,\\nRemurmuring with the groans of pain,\\nDeep freighted with the princely slave.\\nDid all the gods of Afric sleep,\\nForgetful of their guardian love,\\nWhen the white traitors of the deep\\nBetrayed him in the palmy grove\\nA chief of Gambia s golden shore,\\nWhose arm the band of warriors led.\\nPerhaps the lord of boundless power,\\nBy whom the foodless poor were fed.\\nDoes not the voice of reason cry,\\nClaim the first right which nature gave\\nFrom the red scourge of bondage fly.\\nNor deign to live a burdened slave", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0195.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "176 NOTES\\nPage 15, line 3. From painful SeweVs ancient tome.\\nWilliam Sewel was the historian of the Quakers. Charles\\nLamb seemed to have as good an opinion of the book as\\nWhittier. In his essay, A Quahers* Meetingj in Essays of\\nElia, he says Keader, if you are not acquainted with it,\\nI would recommend to you, above all church-narratives, to\\nread Sewel s History of the Quakers. It is far more\\nedifying and affecting than anything you will read of Wes-\\nley or his colleagues.\\nPage 15, line 6. Or Chalhley^s Journal^ old and quaint.\\nThomas Chalkley was an Englishman of Quaker parent-\\nage, born in 1675, who travelled extensively as a preacher,\\nand finally made his home in Philadelphia. He died in\\n1749 his Journal was first published in 1747. His own\\nnarrative of the incident which the poet relates is as fol-\\nlows To stop their murmuring, I told them they should\\nnot need to cast lots, which was usual in such cases, which\\nof us should die first, for I would freely offer up my life to\\ndo them good. One said, God bless you I will not eat\\nany of you. Another said, He would die before he would\\neat any of me and so said several. I can truly say, on\\nthat occasion, at that time, my life was not dear to me, and\\nthat I was serious and ingenuous in lavy proposition and\\nas I was leaning over the side of the vessel, thoughtfully\\nconsidering my proposal to the company, and looking in\\nmy mind to Him that made me, a very large dolphin came\\nup towards the top or surface of the water, and looked me in\\nthe face and I called the people to put a hook into the sea,\\nand take him, for here is one come to redeem me (I said to\\nthem). And they put a hook into the sea, and the fish\\nreadily took it, and they caught him. He was longer than\\nmyself. I think he was about six feet long, and the lar-\\ngest that ever I saw. This plainly showed us that we ought\\nnot to distrust the providence of the Almighty. The peo-\\nple were quieted by this act of Providence, and murmured\\nno more. We caught enough to eat plentifully of, till we\\ngot into the capes of Delaware.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0196.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "NOTES 177\\nPage 15, line 24. Our uncle, innocent of books.\\nFor further account of Whittier s uncle Moses, the reader\\nis referred to Whittier s Frose Works^ volume I. p 323.\\nPage 18, line 1. There, too, our elder sister plied.\\nMary Whittier, born September 3, 1806, married Jacob\\nCaldwell of Haverhill, had two children, Lewis Henry and\\nMary Elizabeth, and died January 7, 1860.\\nPage 18, line 19. Our youngest and our dearest sat.\\nElizabeth Hussey Whittier, born December 7, 1815, was\\nto her brother John what Dorothy Wordsworth was to Wil-\\nliam. It was her brother s opinion that ^had her health,\\nsense of duty, and almost morbid dread of spiritual and in-\\ntellectual egotism permitted, she might have taken a high\\nplace among lyrical singers. She died September 3, 1864.\\nPage 19, line 31. The master of the distinct school.\\nUntil near the end of his life, Whittier was unable to\\nrecall the name of the schoolmaster who stood for this fig-\\nure in Snow-Bound. At last he remembered his name as\\nHaskell, and from this clue the person was traced. He was\\nGeorge Haskell from Waterford, Maine, a Dartmouth stu-\\ndent, who studied medicine, and removed to Illinois, where\\nhe was active in founding Shurtleff College. Later, he\\nmade his home at Vineland, New Jersey, where he aided\\nin laying out the model community there, and especially in\\nestablishing an industrial school. He died in 1876, and.\\nseems never to have known that his portrait was drawn in\\nSnow-Bound.\\nPage 22, line 7. Another guest that winter night.\\nIn his introductory note, Whittier adds somewhat to his\\ncharacterization of Harriet Livermore. At the time when\\nSnow-Bound was written he did not know that she was liv-\\ning, or he might not have introduced her. She died in 1867.\\nPage 23, line 21. The crazy Queen of Lebanon.\\nAn interesting account of Lady Hester Stanhope may be\\n^ound in Kinglake s Eothen, chap. viii.\\nPage 27, line 3. The wise old doctor was Dr. Weld of\\nHaverhill, an able man, who died at the age of ninety-six.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0197.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "178 NOTES\\nPage 27, line 27. Where Ellwood^s meek, drah-shirted\\nMuse.\\nThomas Ellwood, one of the Society of Friends, a con-\\ntenxporary and friend of Milton, and the suggester of Para-\\ndise Regained^ wrote an epic poem in five books called\\nDavideisj the life of King David of Israel. He wrote the\\nbook, we are told, for his own diversion, so it was not ne-\\ncessary that others should be diverted by it. EUwood s\\nautobiography, a quaint and delightful book, may be found\\nin Howells s series of Choice Autobiographies.\\nPage 28, line 5. Before us passed the painted Creeks.\\nReferring to the removal of the Creek Indians from\\nGeorgia to beyond the Mississippi.\\nPage 28, line 6. And daft McGregor on his raids.\\nIn 1822 Sir Gregor McGregor, a Scotchman, began an in-\\neffectual attempt to establish a colony in Costa Rica.\\nPage 29, line 28. These Flemish pictures of old days.\\nIn 1888 Whittier wrote the following lines on the fly-leaf\\nof a copy of the first edition of Snow-Bound\\nTwenty years have taken flight\\nSince these pages saw the light.\\nAll home loves are gone,\\nBut not all with sadness, still,\\nDo the eyes of memory fill\\nAs I gaze thereon.\\nLone and weary life seemed when\\nFirst these pictures of the pen\\nGrew upon my page\\nBut I still have loving friends\\nAnd the peace our Father sends\\nCheers the heart of age.\\nPage 35, line 7.\\nAnd the good man s voice, at strife\\nWith his shrill and tipsy wife.\\nWhen Whittier first went to school with his sister Mary,\\nthe school-house was undergoing repairs, and the school", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0198.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "NOTES 179\\nwas held in a dwelling-house, the other part of which was\\noccupied by a tipsy and quarrelsome couple.\\nPage 48, line 1. Here is the place right over the MIL\\nThe place Whittier had in mind was his birthplace.\\nThere were beehives on the garden terrace near the well\\nsweep, occupied perhaps by the descendants of Thomas\\nWhittier s bees. The approach to the house from over the\\nnorthern shoulder of Job s Hill by a path that was in con-\\nstant use in his boyhood and still in existence, is accurately\\ndescribed in the poem. The gap in the old wall is still to\\nbe seen, and the stepping stones in the shallow brook are\\nstill in use. His sister s garden was down by the brook-\\nside in ftont of the house, and her daffodils are perpetuated\\nand may now be found in their season each year in that\\nplace. The red-barred gate, the poplars, the cattle yard\\nwith Hhe white horns tossing above the wall, were all part\\nof Whittier s boy life on the old farm. Even the touch of\\n*the sundown s blaze on her window pane is realistic.\\nThe only place from which the blaze of the setting sun\\ncould be seen reflected in the windows of the old mansion\\nis from the path so perfectly described. All the story\\nabout Mary and her lover is wholly imaginative. S. T.\\nPiCKAED in his Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whit-\\ntier,\\nPage 76, line 13. I see the gray forfs broken wall.\\nThe place that was in the mind of the poet when he wrote\\nthis stanza was on the rocks at Marblehead, where he had\\nspent an early morning more than forty years before.\\nPage 102, line 16. He loved himself the singer^ s art,\\nMr. Fields printed privately a volume of verse which\\ncalled out Mr. Whittier s pleasant lines To James T, Fields\\non a blanJc leaf of Poems printed not published,^* Another\\npoem In Memory was written after the death of his pub-\\nlisher and friend.\\nPage 102, line 23.\\nPleasant it was to roam about\\nThe lettered world as he had done.", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0199.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "180 NOTES\\nMr. Fields*s Yesterdays with Authors contains in agreea-\\nble form many of those reminiscences of men of letters and\\nart which made him so companionable when living, and\\nfurther hints of his comradery with the literary guild may\\nbe found in the memorial volume, James T, Fields: Bio-\\ngraphical Notes and Personal Sketches,\\nPage 104, line 17.\\nAnd one whose Arab face was tanned\\nBy tropic sun and boreal frost.\\nBayard Taylor was in Germany when The Tent on the\\nBeach was published, and he wrote back to Mr. Fields,\\nHow pleasantly will you and I float down to posterity\\neach holding on to the strong swimmer, J. G. W.\\nAfter Taylor s death, Mr. Whittier wrote the lines headed\\nBayard Taylor. The Quaker origin of the two men was a\\nsubtle bond of union.\\nPage 109, line 9. And fair are the sunny isles in view.\\nThe sunny isles in view from Great Boar s Head, and\\nLittle Boar s Head as well, are the famous Isles. of Shoals,\\nwhose praises have been sung so well by Celia Thaxter.\\nPage 110, line 23.\\nTill the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,\\nAnd they lost the scent of the pines of Eye,\\nStar Island, occupied then as now by fisher folk, is one\\nof the Isles of Shoals. The township of Rye with its odor-\\nous pine-woods reaches to the sea at Rye Beach.\\nPage 113, line 20. Amen said Father Bachiler,\\nEvidence found in favor of the Rev. Stephen Bachiler,\\nan ancestor of the poet, after the poem was first printed,\\nled Whittier to modify lines which implied the guilt of the\\nclergyman.\\nPage 123, line 20. ffis Crimean camp-song hints to us.\\nThe reference is to Bayard Taylor s poem. The Song of\\nthe Camp,\\nPage 149. The Palatine. The legend on which this bal-\\nlad is founded was told to Mr. Whittier by his friend/\\nJoseph P. Hazard, of Newport, R. I., two years before", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0200.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "NOTES 181\\nthe poem was written. About two years after it was\\npublished, he received a curious letter from Mr. Benjamin\\nCorydon, of Napoli, N. Y., then in the ninety-second year\\nof his age, who wrote\\nThe Palatine was a ship that was driven upon Block\\nIsland, in a storm, more than a hundred years ago. Her\\npeople had just got ashore, and were on their knees thank-\\ning God for saving them from drowning, when the Island-\\ners rushed upon them and murdered them all. That was a\\nlittle more than the Almighty could stand, so He sent the\\nFire or Phantom Ship, to let them know He had not for-\\ngotten their wickedness. She was seen once a year on the\\nsame night of the year on which the murders occurred,\\nas long as any of the wreckers were living but never after\\nall were dead. I must have seen her eight or ten times\\nperhaps more in my early days. It is seventy years or\\nmore since she was last seen. My father lived right oppo-\\nsite Block Island, on the mainland, so we had a fair view\\nof her as she passed down by the island then she would\\ndisappear. She resembled a full-rigged ship, with her sails\\nall set and all ablaze. It was the grandest sight I ever saw\\nin all my life. I know of only two living who ever saw\\nher, Benjamin L. Knowles, of Rhode Island, now ninety\\nfour years old, and myself, now in my ninety-second year.*", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0201.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "BLECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\\nBY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.\\nCAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A.", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0202.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW\\nEvangeline A Tale of Acadie. With In-\\ntroduction and Notes.\\nJOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER\\nSnow-Bound, and Other Autobiographic\\nPoems. With Introduction and Notes.\\nOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES\\nThe One Hos^ Shay, The Chambered Nau-\\ntilus, AND Other Poems, Gay and Grave.\\nWith an Introduction.\\nJAMES RUSSELL LOWELL\\nThe Vision of Sir Launfal, A Fable for\\nCritics, and the Commemoration Ode.\\nWith Introduction and Notes.\\nNATHANIEL HAWTHORNE\\nLegends of the Province House, and\\nOther Twice-Told Tales. With an Intro-\\nduction.\\nEach volume has a photogravure frontispiece.\\nPJRICE, 50 CENTS EACH\\nOthers tofollow\u00c2\u00bb\\nae", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0203.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0204.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0205.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0206.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0207.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "MAY 28 1900", "height": "4016", "width": "2490", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0208.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4009", "width": "2396", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0209.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4054", "width": "2560", "jp2-path": "snowboundotherau00whit_0210.jp2"}}