Chapter 9

I.1.Hendrick Van Ghelt of Monmouth shore,His fame still rings the county o’er!The stock that he raised, the stallion he rode,The fertile acres his farmers sowed;The dinners he gave; the yacht which layAt his fishing-dock in the Lower Bay;The suits he waged, through many a year,For a rood of land behind his pier,—Of these the chronicles yet remainFrom Navesink Heights to Freehold Plain.2.The Shrewsbury people in autumn helpTheir sandy toplands with marl and kelp,And their peach and apple orchards fillThe gurgling vats of the cross-road mill.They tell, as each twirls his tavern-can,Wonderful tales of that stanch old man,And they boast, of the draught they have tasted and smelt,“’Tis good as the still of Hendrick Van Ghelt!”3.Were he alive, and at his prime,In this, our boisterous modern time,He would surely be, as he could not then,A stalwart leader of mounted men,—A ranger, shouting his battle-cry,Who knew how to fight and dared to die;And the fame which a county’s limit spannedMight have grown a legend throughout the land.4.He would have scoured the Valley through,Doing as now our bravest do;Would have tried rough-riding on the border,Punishing raider and marauder;With bearded Ashby crossing swordsAs he took the Shenandoah fords;Giving bold Stuart a bloody chaseEre he reached again his trysting-place.Horse and horseman of the foeThe blast of his bugle-charge should know,And his men should water their steeds, at will,From the banks of Southern river and rill.5.How many are there of us, in thisDiscordant social wilderness,Whose thriftiest scions the power gain,Through meet conditions of sun and rain,To yield, on the fairest blossoming shoot,A mellow harvest of perfect fruit?Fashioned after so rare a type,How should his life grow full and ripe,There, in the passionless haunts of Peace,Through trade, and tillage, and wealth’s increase?6.But at his manor-house he dwelt,And royally bore the name Van Ghelt;Nor found a larger part to playThan such as a county magnate may:Ruling the hustings as he would,Lord of the rustic neighborhood;With potent wishes and quiet wordsHolding an undisputed sway.The broadest meadows, the fattest herds,The fleetest roadsters, the warmest cheer,—These were old Hendrick’s many a year.Daughters unto his hearthstone came,And a son—to keep the ancient name.7.Often, perchance, the old man’s eyeFrom a seaward casement would espy,Scanning the harborage in the bay,A ship which idly at anchor lay;Watching her as she rose and fell,Up and down, with the evening swell,Her cordage slackened, her sails unbent,And all her proud life somnolent.And perchance he thought—“My life, it seems,Like her, unfreighted with aught but dreams;Yet I feel within me a strength to dareSome outward voyage, I know not where!”But the forceful impulse wore awayIn the common life of every day,And for Hendrick Van Ghelt no timely hourRuffled the calm of that hidden power;Yet in the prelude of my songHis storied presence may well belong,As a Lombardy poplar, lithe and hoar,Stands at a Monmouth farmer’s door,Set like a spire against the sky,Marking the hours, while lover and maidLinger long in its stately shade,And round its summit the swallows fly.II.1.Nature a devious by-way finds: solve me her secret whim,That the seed of a gnarled oak should sprout to a sapling straight and prim;That a russet should grow on the pippin stock, on the garden-rose a brier;That a stalwart race, in old Hendrick’s son, should smother its wonted fire.Hermann, fond of his book, and shirking the brawny out-door sports;Sent to college, and choosing for life the law with her mouldy courts;Proud, and of tender honor, as well became his father’s blood,But with cold and courtly self-restraint weighing the ill and good;Wed to a lady whose delicate veins that molten azure held,Ichor of equal birth, wherewith our gentry their couplings weld;Viewing his father’s careless modes with half a tolerant eye,As one who honors, regretting not, old fashions passing by.After a while the moment came when, unto the son and heir,A son and heir was given in turn,—a moment of joy and prayer;For the angel who guards the portals twain oped, in the self-same breath,To the child the pearly gate of life, to the mother the gate of death.Father, and son, and an infant plucking the daisies over a grave:The swell of a boundless surge keeps on, wave following after wave;Ever the tide of life sets toward the low invisible shore:Whence had the current its distant source? when shall it flow no more?2.Nature’s serene renewals, that make the scion by one removeBear the ancestral blossom and thrive as the forest wilding throve!Roseate stream of life, which hides the course its ducts pursue,To rise, like that Sicilian fount, in far-off springs anew!For the grandsire’s vigor, rude and rare, asleep in the son had lain,To waken in Hugh, the grandson’s frame, with the ancient force again;And ere the boy, said the Monmouth wives, had grown to his seventh year,Well could you tell whose mantling blood swelled in his temples clear.Tall, and bent in the meeting brows; swarthy of hair and face;Shoulders parting square, but set with the future huntsman’s grace;Eyes alive with a fire which yet the old man’s visage woreAt times, like the flash of a thunder-cloud when the storm is almost o’er.3.Toward the mettled stripling, then, the heart of the old man yearned;And thus—while Hermann Van Ghelt once more, with a restless hunger, turnedFrom the grave of her who died so young, to his books and lawyer’s gown,And the ceaseless clangor of mind with mind in the close and wrangling town—They two, the boy and the grandsire, lived at the manor-house, and grew,The one to all manly arts apace, the other a youth anew—Pleased with the boy’s free spirit, and teaching him, step by step, to wieldThe mastery over living things, and the craft of flood and field.Apt, indeed, was the scholar; and born with a subtle art to gainThe love of all dumb creatures at will; now lifting himself, by the mane,Over the neck of the three-year colt, for a random bareback ride,Now chasing the waves on the rifted beach at the turn of the evening tide.Proud, in sooth, was the master: the youngster, he oft and roundly swore,Was fit for the life a gentleman led in the lusty days of yore!And he took the boy wherever he drove,—to a county fair or race;Gave him the reins and watched him guide the span at a spanking pace;Taught him the sportsman’s keen delight: to swallow the air of morn,And start the whistling quail that hides and feeds in the dewy corn;Or in clear November underwoods to bag the squirrels, and flushThe brown-winged, mottled partridge a-whir from her nest in the tangled brush;Taught him the golden harvest laws, and the signs of sun and shower,And the thousand beautiful secret ways of graft and fruit and flower;Set him straight in his saddle, and cheered him galloping over the sand;Sailed with him to the fishing-shoals and placed the helm in his hand.Often the yacht, with all sail spread, was steered by the fearless twainAround the beacon of Sandy Hook, and out in the open main;Till the great sea-surges rolling in, as south-by-east they wore,Lifted the bows of the dancing craft, and the buoyant hearts she bore.But in dreamy hours, which young men know, Hugh loved with the tide to floatFar up the deep, dark-channeled creeks, alone in his two-oared boat;While a fiery woven tapestry o’erhung the waters low,The warp of the frosted chestnut, the woof with maple and birch aglow;Picking the grapes which dangled down; or watching the autumn skies,The osprey’s slow imperial swoop, the scrawny heron’s rise;Nursing a longing for larger life than circled a rural home,An instinct of leadership within, and of action yet to come.4.Curtain of shifting seasons dropt on moor and meadow and hall,Open your random vistas of changes that come with time to all!Hugh grown up to manhood; foremost, searching the county through,Of the Monmouth youth, in birth and grace, and the strength to will and do.The father, past the prime of life, and his temples flecked with toil,A bookman still, and leaving to Hugh the care of stock and soil.Hendrick Van Ghelt, a bowed old man in a fireside-corner chair,Counting the porcelain Scripture tiles which frame the chimney there,—The shade of the stalwart gentleman the people used to know,Forgetful of half the present scenes, but mindful of long-ago;Aroused, mayhap, by growing murmurs of Southern feud, that cameAnd woke anew in his fading eyes a spark of their ancient flame.5.Gazing on such a group as this, folds of the curtain drop,Hiding the grandsire’s form; and the wheels of the sliding picture stop.Gone, that stout old Hendrick, at last! and from miles around they came,—Farmer, and squire, and whispering youths, recalling his manhood’s fame.Dead: and the Van Ghelt manor closed, and the homestead acres leased;For their owner had moved more near the town, where his daily tasks increased,Choosing a home on the blue Passaic, whence the Newark spires and lightsWere seen, and over the salt sea-marsh the shadows of Bergen Heights.Back and forth from his city work, the lawyer, day by day,With the press of eager and toiling men, followed his wonted way;And Hugh,—he dallied with life at home, tending the garden and grounds;But the mansion longed for a woman’s voice to soften its lonely sounds.“Hugh,” said Hermann Van Ghelt, at length, “choose for yourself a wife,Comely, and good, and of birth to match the mother who gave you life.No words of woman have charmed my ear since last I heard her voice;And of fairest and proudest maids her son should make a worthy choice.”But now the young man’s wandering heart from the great world turned away,To long for the healthful Monmouth meads, the shores of the breezy bay;And often the scenes and mates he knew in boyhood he sought again,And roamed through the well-known woods, and lay in the grass where he once had lain.III.Ladies, in silks and laces,Lunching with lips agleam,Know you aught of the placesYielding such fruit and cream?South from your harbor-islandsGlisten the Monmouth hills;There are the ocean highlands,Lowland meadows and rills,Berries in field and garden,Trees with their fruitage low,Maidens (asking your pardon)Handsome as cities show.Know you that, night and morning,A beautiful water-fay,Covered with strange adorning,Crosses your rippling bay?Her sides are white and sparkling;She whistles to the shore;Behind, her hair is darkling,And the waters part before.Lightly the waves she measuresUp to the wharves of the town;There, unlading her treasures,Lovingly puts them down.Come with me, ladies; clusterHere on the western pier;Look at her jewels’ lustre,Changed with the changing year!First of the months to woo her,June his strawberries flingsOver her garniture,Bringing her exquisite things;Rifling his richest casket;Handing her, everywhere,Garnets in crate and basket;Knowing she soon will wearBlackberry jet and lava,Raspberries ruby-red,Trinkets that August gave her,Over her toilet spread.After such gifts have faded,Then the peaches are seen,—Coral and ivory braided,Fit for an Indian queen.And September will send her,Proud of his wealth, and bold,Melons glowing in splendor,Emeralds set with gold.So she glides to the Narrows,Where the forts are astir:Her speed is a shining arrow’s!Guns are silent for her.So she glides to the ringingBells of the belfried town,Kissing the wharves, and flingingAll of her jewels down.Whence she gathers her riches,Ladies, now would you see?Leaving your city niches,Wander awhile with me.IV.1.The strawberry-vines lie in the sun,Their myriad tendrils twined in one;Spread like a carpet of richest dyes,The strawberry-field in sunshine lies.Each timorous berry, blushing red,Has folded the leaves above her head,The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew;But each blushful berry, peering through,Shows like a flock of the underthread,—The crimson woof of a downy clothWhere the elves may kneel and plight their troth.2.Run through the rustling vines, to showEach picker an even space to go,Leaders of twinkling cord divideThe field in lanes from side to side;And here and there with patient care,Lifting the leafage everywhere,Rural maidens and mothers dotThe velvet of the strawberry-plot:Fair and freckled, old and young,With baskets at their girdles hung,Searching the plants with no rude haste,Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste:—Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest,First gift of the fruity months, and best.3.Crates of the laden baskets coolUnder the trees at the meadow’s edge,Covered with grass and dripping sedge,And lily-leaves from the shaded pool;Filled, and ready to be borneTo market before the morrow morn.Beside them, gazing at the skies,Hour after hour a young man lies.From the hillside, under the trees,He looks across the field, and seesThe waves that ever beyond it climb,Whitening the rye-slope’s early prime;At times he listens, listlessly,To the tree-toad singing in the tree,Or sees the catbird peck his fillWith feathers adroop and roguish bill.But often, with a pleased unrest,He lifts his glances to the west,Watching the kirtles, red and blue,Which cross the meadow in his view;And he hears, anon, the busy throngSing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song:4.“Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,Ere the day has reached its nooning;While the skies are fair, and the morning airAwakens the thrush’s tuning.“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.“Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stainIs glowing on lips and fingers;The sun has lain in the leafy plain,And the dust of his pinions lingers.“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.“Gather the cones which lie concealed,With their vines your foreheads wreathing;The strawberry-field its sweets shall yieldWhile the western winds are breathing.“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.”5.From the far hillside comes againAn echo of the pickers’ strain.Sweetly the group their cadence keep;Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep;The vines are stripped and the song is sung,A joyous labor for old and young;For the blithe children, gleaning behindThe women, marvellous treasures find.6.From the workers a maiden parts:The baskets at her waistband shineWith berries that look like bleeding heartsOf a hundred lovers at her shrine;No Eastern girl were girdled so wellWith silken belt and silver bell.Her slender form is tall and strong;Her voice is the sweetest in the song;Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown,Loose from its bonnet ripples down.Toward the crates, that lie in the shadeOf the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade,She moves from her mates, through happy rowsOf the children loving her as she goes.Alice, our Alice!one and all,Striving to stay her footsteps, call(For children with skilful choice dispenseThe largesse of their innocence);But on, with a sister’s smile, she movesInto the darkness of the groves,And deftly, daintily, one by one,Shelters her baskets from the sun,Under the network, fresh and cool,Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool.7.Turning her violet eyes, their raysGlistened full in the young man’s gaze;And each at each, for a moment’s space,Looked with a diffident surprise.“Heaven!” thought Hugh, “what artless graceThat laborer’s daughter glorifies!I never saw a fairer face,I never heard a sweeter voice;And oh! were she my father’s choice,My father’s choice and mine were oneIn the strawberry-field and morning sun.”V.Love, from that summer mornMelting the souls of these two;Love, which some of you knowWho read this poem to-day—Is it the same desire,The strong, ineffable joy,Which Jacob and Rachel felt,When he served her father long years,And the years were swift as days—So great was the love he bore?Race, advancing with time,Growing in thought and deed,Mastering land and sea,Say, does the heart advance,Are its passions more pure and strong?They, like Nature, remain,No more and no less than of yore.Whoso conquers the earth,Winning its riches and fame,Comes to the evening at last,The sunset of threescore years,Confessing that Love was real,All the rest was a dream!The sum of his gains is dross;The song in his praise is mute;The wreath of his laurels fades:But the kiss of his early loveStill burns on his trembling lip,The spirit of one he lovedHallows his dreams at night.A little while, and the scenesOf the play of Life are closed;Come, let us rest an hour,And by the pleasant streams,Under the fresh, green trees,Let us walk hand in hand,And think of the days that were.VI.1.On river and height and salty moors the haze of autumn fell,And the cloud of a troubled joy enwrapt the face of Hugh as well,—The spell of a secret haunt that far from home his footsteps drew;A love which over the brow of youth the mask of manhood threw.Birds of the air to the father, at length, the common rumor brought:“Your son,” they sang, “in the cunning toils of a rustic lass is caught!”“A fit betrothal,” the lawyer said, “must make these follies cease;Which shall it be?—the banker’s ward?—Edith, the judge’s niece?”“Father, I pray”—said Hugh. “O yes!” out-leapt the other’s mood,“I hear of your wanton loiterings; they ill become your blood!If you hold our name at such light worth, forbear to darken the lifeOf this Alice Dale”—“No, Alice Van Ghelt! father, she is my wife.”2.Worldlings, who say the eagle should mate with eagle, after his kind,Nor have learned from what far and diverse cliffs the twain each other find,Yours is the old, old story, of age forgetting its wiser youth;Of eyes which are keen for others’ good and blind to an inward truth.But the pride which closed the father’s doors swelled in the young man’s veins,And he led his bride, in the sight of all, through the pleasant Monmouth lanes,To the little farm his grandsire gave, years since, for a birthday gift:Unto such havens unforeseen the barks of our fortune drift!There, for a happy pastoral year, he tilled the teeming field,Scattered the marl above his land, and gathered the orchard’s yield;And Alice, in fair and simple guise, kissed him at even-fall;And her face was to him an angel’s face, and love was all in all.—What is this light in the southern sky, painting a red alarm?What is this trumpet call, which sounds through peaceful village and farm,—Jarring the sweet idyllic rest, stilling the children’s throng,Hushing the cricket on the hearth, and the lovers’ evening song?VII.1.War! war! war!Manning of forts on land and ships for sea;Innumerous lips that speak the righteous wrathOf days which have been and again may be;Flashing of tender eyes disdaining tears;A pause of men with indrawn breath,Knowing it awful for the people’s willThus, thus to end the mellow yearsOf harvest, growth, prosperity,And bring the years of famine, fire, and death,Though fear and a nation’s shame are more awful still.2.War! war! war!A thundercloud in the South in the early Spring,—The launch of a thunderbolt; and then,With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing,And a rolling echo roused a million men!Then the ploughman left his field;The smith, at his clanging forge,Forged him a sword to wield.From meadow, and mountain-gorge,And the Western plains, they came,Fronting the storm and flame.War! war! war!Heaven aid the right!God nerve the hero’s arm in the fearful fight!God send the women sleep, in the long, long night,When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more!VIII.1.Spake each mother to her son,Ere an ancient field was won:“Spartan, who me your mother call,Our country is mother of us all;In her you breathe, and move, and are.In peace, for her to live—in war,For her to die—is, gloriously,A patriot to live and die!”2.The times are now as grand as thenWith dauntless women, earnest men;For thus the mothers whom we knowBade their sons to battle go;And, with a smile, the loyal NorthSent her million freemen forth.3.“What men should stronger-hearted beThan we, who dwell by the open sea,Tilling the lands our fathers wonIn battle on the Monmouth Plains?Ah! a memory remains,Telling us what they have done,Teaching us what we should do.Let us send our rightful share,—Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,A hundred riders fleet and true.”4.A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:“Were he still here,” their captain thought,“The brave old man who trained my youth,What a leader he would makeWhere the battle’s topmost billows break!The crimes which brought our land to ruth,How in his soul they would have wrought!God help me, no deed of mine shall shameThe honor of my grandsire’s name;And my father shall see how pure and goodRuns in these veins the olden blood.”5.Shore and inland their men have sent:Away, to the mounted regiment,The silver-hazed Potomac heights,The circling raids, the hundred fights,The booth, the bivouac, the tent.Away, from the happy Monmouth farms,To noontide marches, night alarms,Death in the shadowy oaken glades,Emptied saddles, broken blades,—All the turmoil that soldiers knowWho gallop to meet a mortal foe,Some to conquer, some to fall:War hath its chances for one and all.6.Heroes, who render up their livesOn the country’s fiery altar-stone—They do not offer themselves alone.What shall become of the soldiers’ wives?They stay behind in the lonely cots,Weeding the humble garden-plots;Some to speed the needle and thread,For the soldiers’ children must be fed;All to sigh, through the toilsome day,And at night teach lisping lips to prayFor the fathers marching far away.IX.1.Cloud and flame on the dark frontier,Veiling the hosts embattled there:Peace, and a boding stillness, here,Where the wives at home repeat their prayer.2.The weary August days are long;The locusts sing a plaintive song,The cattle miss their master’s callWhen they see the sunset shadows fall.The youthful mistress, at even-tide,Stands by the cedarn wicket’s side,With both hands pushing from the frontHer hair, as those who listen are wont;Gazing toward the unknown South,While silent whispers part her mouth:3.“O, if a woman could only findOther work than to wait behind,Through midnight dew and noonday drouth,—To wait behind, and fear, and pray!O, if a soldier’s wife could say,—‘Where thou goest, I will go;Kiss thee ere thou meet’st the foe;Where thou lodgest, worst or best,Share and soothe thy broken rest!’—Alas, to stifle her pain, and wait,This was ever a woman’s fate!But the lonely hours at least may bePassed a little nearer thee,And the city thou guardest with thy lifeThou’lt guard more fondly for holding thy wife.”

Hendrick Van Ghelt of Monmouth shore,

His fame still rings the county o’er!

The stock that he raised, the stallion he rode,

The fertile acres his farmers sowed;

The dinners he gave; the yacht which lay

At his fishing-dock in the Lower Bay;

The suits he waged, through many a year,

For a rood of land behind his pier,—

Of these the chronicles yet remain

From Navesink Heights to Freehold Plain.

2.The Shrewsbury people in autumn helpTheir sandy toplands with marl and kelp,And their peach and apple orchards fillThe gurgling vats of the cross-road mill.They tell, as each twirls his tavern-can,Wonderful tales of that stanch old man,And they boast, of the draught they have tasted and smelt,“’Tis good as the still of Hendrick Van Ghelt!”

The Shrewsbury people in autumn help

Their sandy toplands with marl and kelp,

And their peach and apple orchards fill

The gurgling vats of the cross-road mill.

They tell, as each twirls his tavern-can,

Wonderful tales of that stanch old man,

And they boast, of the draught they have tasted and smelt,

“’Tis good as the still of Hendrick Van Ghelt!”

3.Were he alive, and at his prime,In this, our boisterous modern time,He would surely be, as he could not then,A stalwart leader of mounted men,—A ranger, shouting his battle-cry,Who knew how to fight and dared to die;And the fame which a county’s limit spannedMight have grown a legend throughout the land.

Were he alive, and at his prime,

In this, our boisterous modern time,

He would surely be, as he could not then,

A stalwart leader of mounted men,—

A ranger, shouting his battle-cry,

Who knew how to fight and dared to die;

And the fame which a county’s limit spanned

Might have grown a legend throughout the land.

4.He would have scoured the Valley through,Doing as now our bravest do;Would have tried rough-riding on the border,Punishing raider and marauder;With bearded Ashby crossing swordsAs he took the Shenandoah fords;Giving bold Stuart a bloody chaseEre he reached again his trysting-place.Horse and horseman of the foeThe blast of his bugle-charge should know,And his men should water their steeds, at will,From the banks of Southern river and rill.

He would have scoured the Valley through,

Doing as now our bravest do;

Would have tried rough-riding on the border,

Punishing raider and marauder;

With bearded Ashby crossing swords

As he took the Shenandoah fords;

Giving bold Stuart a bloody chase

Ere he reached again his trysting-place.

Horse and horseman of the foe

The blast of his bugle-charge should know,

And his men should water their steeds, at will,

From the banks of Southern river and rill.

5.How many are there of us, in thisDiscordant social wilderness,Whose thriftiest scions the power gain,Through meet conditions of sun and rain,To yield, on the fairest blossoming shoot,A mellow harvest of perfect fruit?Fashioned after so rare a type,How should his life grow full and ripe,There, in the passionless haunts of Peace,Through trade, and tillage, and wealth’s increase?

How many are there of us, in this

Discordant social wilderness,

Whose thriftiest scions the power gain,

Through meet conditions of sun and rain,

To yield, on the fairest blossoming shoot,

A mellow harvest of perfect fruit?

Fashioned after so rare a type,

How should his life grow full and ripe,

There, in the passionless haunts of Peace,

Through trade, and tillage, and wealth’s increase?

6.But at his manor-house he dwelt,And royally bore the name Van Ghelt;Nor found a larger part to playThan such as a county magnate may:Ruling the hustings as he would,Lord of the rustic neighborhood;With potent wishes and quiet wordsHolding an undisputed sway.The broadest meadows, the fattest herds,The fleetest roadsters, the warmest cheer,—These were old Hendrick’s many a year.Daughters unto his hearthstone came,And a son—to keep the ancient name.

But at his manor-house he dwelt,

And royally bore the name Van Ghelt;

Nor found a larger part to play

Than such as a county magnate may:

Ruling the hustings as he would,

Lord of the rustic neighborhood;

With potent wishes and quiet words

Holding an undisputed sway.

The broadest meadows, the fattest herds,

The fleetest roadsters, the warmest cheer,—

These were old Hendrick’s many a year.

Daughters unto his hearthstone came,

And a son—to keep the ancient name.

7.Often, perchance, the old man’s eyeFrom a seaward casement would espy,Scanning the harborage in the bay,A ship which idly at anchor lay;Watching her as she rose and fell,Up and down, with the evening swell,Her cordage slackened, her sails unbent,And all her proud life somnolent.And perchance he thought—“My life, it seems,Like her, unfreighted with aught but dreams;Yet I feel within me a strength to dareSome outward voyage, I know not where!”But the forceful impulse wore awayIn the common life of every day,And for Hendrick Van Ghelt no timely hourRuffled the calm of that hidden power;Yet in the prelude of my songHis storied presence may well belong,As a Lombardy poplar, lithe and hoar,Stands at a Monmouth farmer’s door,Set like a spire against the sky,Marking the hours, while lover and maidLinger long in its stately shade,And round its summit the swallows fly.

Often, perchance, the old man’s eye

From a seaward casement would espy,

Scanning the harborage in the bay,

A ship which idly at anchor lay;

Watching her as she rose and fell,

Up and down, with the evening swell,

Her cordage slackened, her sails unbent,

And all her proud life somnolent.

And perchance he thought—“My life, it seems,

Like her, unfreighted with aught but dreams;

Yet I feel within me a strength to dare

Some outward voyage, I know not where!”

But the forceful impulse wore away

In the common life of every day,

And for Hendrick Van Ghelt no timely hour

Ruffled the calm of that hidden power;

Yet in the prelude of my song

His storied presence may well belong,

As a Lombardy poplar, lithe and hoar,

Stands at a Monmouth farmer’s door,

Set like a spire against the sky,

Marking the hours, while lover and maid

Linger long in its stately shade,

And round its summit the swallows fly.

II.1.Nature a devious by-way finds: solve me her secret whim,That the seed of a gnarled oak should sprout to a sapling straight and prim;That a russet should grow on the pippin stock, on the garden-rose a brier;That a stalwart race, in old Hendrick’s son, should smother its wonted fire.

Nature a devious by-way finds: solve me her secret whim,

That the seed of a gnarled oak should sprout to a sapling straight and prim;

That a russet should grow on the pippin stock, on the garden-rose a brier;

That a stalwart race, in old Hendrick’s son, should smother its wonted fire.

Hermann, fond of his book, and shirking the brawny out-door sports;Sent to college, and choosing for life the law with her mouldy courts;Proud, and of tender honor, as well became his father’s blood,But with cold and courtly self-restraint weighing the ill and good;

Hermann, fond of his book, and shirking the brawny out-door sports;

Sent to college, and choosing for life the law with her mouldy courts;

Proud, and of tender honor, as well became his father’s blood,

But with cold and courtly self-restraint weighing the ill and good;

Wed to a lady whose delicate veins that molten azure held,Ichor of equal birth, wherewith our gentry their couplings weld;Viewing his father’s careless modes with half a tolerant eye,As one who honors, regretting not, old fashions passing by.

Wed to a lady whose delicate veins that molten azure held,

Ichor of equal birth, wherewith our gentry their couplings weld;

Viewing his father’s careless modes with half a tolerant eye,

As one who honors, regretting not, old fashions passing by.

After a while the moment came when, unto the son and heir,A son and heir was given in turn,—a moment of joy and prayer;For the angel who guards the portals twain oped, in the self-same breath,To the child the pearly gate of life, to the mother the gate of death.

After a while the moment came when, unto the son and heir,

A son and heir was given in turn,—a moment of joy and prayer;

For the angel who guards the portals twain oped, in the self-same breath,

To the child the pearly gate of life, to the mother the gate of death.

Father, and son, and an infant plucking the daisies over a grave:The swell of a boundless surge keeps on, wave following after wave;Ever the tide of life sets toward the low invisible shore:Whence had the current its distant source? when shall it flow no more?

Father, and son, and an infant plucking the daisies over a grave:

The swell of a boundless surge keeps on, wave following after wave;

Ever the tide of life sets toward the low invisible shore:

Whence had the current its distant source? when shall it flow no more?

2.Nature’s serene renewals, that make the scion by one removeBear the ancestral blossom and thrive as the forest wilding throve!Roseate stream of life, which hides the course its ducts pursue,To rise, like that Sicilian fount, in far-off springs anew!

Nature’s serene renewals, that make the scion by one remove

Bear the ancestral blossom and thrive as the forest wilding throve!

Roseate stream of life, which hides the course its ducts pursue,

To rise, like that Sicilian fount, in far-off springs anew!

For the grandsire’s vigor, rude and rare, asleep in the son had lain,To waken in Hugh, the grandson’s frame, with the ancient force again;And ere the boy, said the Monmouth wives, had grown to his seventh year,Well could you tell whose mantling blood swelled in his temples clear.

For the grandsire’s vigor, rude and rare, asleep in the son had lain,

To waken in Hugh, the grandson’s frame, with the ancient force again;

And ere the boy, said the Monmouth wives, had grown to his seventh year,

Well could you tell whose mantling blood swelled in his temples clear.

Tall, and bent in the meeting brows; swarthy of hair and face;Shoulders parting square, but set with the future huntsman’s grace;Eyes alive with a fire which yet the old man’s visage woreAt times, like the flash of a thunder-cloud when the storm is almost o’er.

Tall, and bent in the meeting brows; swarthy of hair and face;

Shoulders parting square, but set with the future huntsman’s grace;

Eyes alive with a fire which yet the old man’s visage wore

At times, like the flash of a thunder-cloud when the storm is almost o’er.

3.Toward the mettled stripling, then, the heart of the old man yearned;And thus—while Hermann Van Ghelt once more, with a restless hunger, turnedFrom the grave of her who died so young, to his books and lawyer’s gown,And the ceaseless clangor of mind with mind in the close and wrangling town—

Toward the mettled stripling, then, the heart of the old man yearned;

And thus—while Hermann Van Ghelt once more, with a restless hunger, turned

From the grave of her who died so young, to his books and lawyer’s gown,

And the ceaseless clangor of mind with mind in the close and wrangling town—

They two, the boy and the grandsire, lived at the manor-house, and grew,The one to all manly arts apace, the other a youth anew—Pleased with the boy’s free spirit, and teaching him, step by step, to wieldThe mastery over living things, and the craft of flood and field.

They two, the boy and the grandsire, lived at the manor-house, and grew,

The one to all manly arts apace, the other a youth anew—

Pleased with the boy’s free spirit, and teaching him, step by step, to wield

The mastery over living things, and the craft of flood and field.

Apt, indeed, was the scholar; and born with a subtle art to gainThe love of all dumb creatures at will; now lifting himself, by the mane,Over the neck of the three-year colt, for a random bareback ride,Now chasing the waves on the rifted beach at the turn of the evening tide.

Apt, indeed, was the scholar; and born with a subtle art to gain

The love of all dumb creatures at will; now lifting himself, by the mane,

Over the neck of the three-year colt, for a random bareback ride,

Now chasing the waves on the rifted beach at the turn of the evening tide.

Proud, in sooth, was the master: the youngster, he oft and roundly swore,Was fit for the life a gentleman led in the lusty days of yore!And he took the boy wherever he drove,—to a county fair or race;Gave him the reins and watched him guide the span at a spanking pace;

Proud, in sooth, was the master: the youngster, he oft and roundly swore,

Was fit for the life a gentleman led in the lusty days of yore!

And he took the boy wherever he drove,—to a county fair or race;

Gave him the reins and watched him guide the span at a spanking pace;

Taught him the sportsman’s keen delight: to swallow the air of morn,And start the whistling quail that hides and feeds in the dewy corn;Or in clear November underwoods to bag the squirrels, and flushThe brown-winged, mottled partridge a-whir from her nest in the tangled brush;

Taught him the sportsman’s keen delight: to swallow the air of morn,

And start the whistling quail that hides and feeds in the dewy corn;

Or in clear November underwoods to bag the squirrels, and flush

The brown-winged, mottled partridge a-whir from her nest in the tangled brush;

Taught him the golden harvest laws, and the signs of sun and shower,And the thousand beautiful secret ways of graft and fruit and flower;Set him straight in his saddle, and cheered him galloping over the sand;Sailed with him to the fishing-shoals and placed the helm in his hand.

Taught him the golden harvest laws, and the signs of sun and shower,

And the thousand beautiful secret ways of graft and fruit and flower;

Set him straight in his saddle, and cheered him galloping over the sand;

Sailed with him to the fishing-shoals and placed the helm in his hand.

Often the yacht, with all sail spread, was steered by the fearless twainAround the beacon of Sandy Hook, and out in the open main;Till the great sea-surges rolling in, as south-by-east they wore,Lifted the bows of the dancing craft, and the buoyant hearts she bore.

Often the yacht, with all sail spread, was steered by the fearless twain

Around the beacon of Sandy Hook, and out in the open main;

Till the great sea-surges rolling in, as south-by-east they wore,

Lifted the bows of the dancing craft, and the buoyant hearts she bore.

But in dreamy hours, which young men know, Hugh loved with the tide to floatFar up the deep, dark-channeled creeks, alone in his two-oared boat;While a fiery woven tapestry o’erhung the waters low,The warp of the frosted chestnut, the woof with maple and birch aglow;

But in dreamy hours, which young men know, Hugh loved with the tide to float

Far up the deep, dark-channeled creeks, alone in his two-oared boat;

While a fiery woven tapestry o’erhung the waters low,

The warp of the frosted chestnut, the woof with maple and birch aglow;

Picking the grapes which dangled down; or watching the autumn skies,The osprey’s slow imperial swoop, the scrawny heron’s rise;Nursing a longing for larger life than circled a rural home,An instinct of leadership within, and of action yet to come.

Picking the grapes which dangled down; or watching the autumn skies,

The osprey’s slow imperial swoop, the scrawny heron’s rise;

Nursing a longing for larger life than circled a rural home,

An instinct of leadership within, and of action yet to come.

4.Curtain of shifting seasons dropt on moor and meadow and hall,Open your random vistas of changes that come with time to all!Hugh grown up to manhood; foremost, searching the county through,Of the Monmouth youth, in birth and grace, and the strength to will and do.

Curtain of shifting seasons dropt on moor and meadow and hall,

Open your random vistas of changes that come with time to all!

Hugh grown up to manhood; foremost, searching the county through,

Of the Monmouth youth, in birth and grace, and the strength to will and do.

The father, past the prime of life, and his temples flecked with toil,A bookman still, and leaving to Hugh the care of stock and soil.Hendrick Van Ghelt, a bowed old man in a fireside-corner chair,Counting the porcelain Scripture tiles which frame the chimney there,—

The father, past the prime of life, and his temples flecked with toil,

A bookman still, and leaving to Hugh the care of stock and soil.

Hendrick Van Ghelt, a bowed old man in a fireside-corner chair,

Counting the porcelain Scripture tiles which frame the chimney there,—

The shade of the stalwart gentleman the people used to know,Forgetful of half the present scenes, but mindful of long-ago;Aroused, mayhap, by growing murmurs of Southern feud, that cameAnd woke anew in his fading eyes a spark of their ancient flame.

The shade of the stalwart gentleman the people used to know,

Forgetful of half the present scenes, but mindful of long-ago;

Aroused, mayhap, by growing murmurs of Southern feud, that came

And woke anew in his fading eyes a spark of their ancient flame.

5.Gazing on such a group as this, folds of the curtain drop,Hiding the grandsire’s form; and the wheels of the sliding picture stop.Gone, that stout old Hendrick, at last! and from miles around they came,—Farmer, and squire, and whispering youths, recalling his manhood’s fame.

Gazing on such a group as this, folds of the curtain drop,

Hiding the grandsire’s form; and the wheels of the sliding picture stop.

Gone, that stout old Hendrick, at last! and from miles around they came,—

Farmer, and squire, and whispering youths, recalling his manhood’s fame.

Dead: and the Van Ghelt manor closed, and the homestead acres leased;For their owner had moved more near the town, where his daily tasks increased,Choosing a home on the blue Passaic, whence the Newark spires and lightsWere seen, and over the salt sea-marsh the shadows of Bergen Heights.

Dead: and the Van Ghelt manor closed, and the homestead acres leased;

For their owner had moved more near the town, where his daily tasks increased,

Choosing a home on the blue Passaic, whence the Newark spires and lights

Were seen, and over the salt sea-marsh the shadows of Bergen Heights.

Back and forth from his city work, the lawyer, day by day,With the press of eager and toiling men, followed his wonted way;And Hugh,—he dallied with life at home, tending the garden and grounds;But the mansion longed for a woman’s voice to soften its lonely sounds.

Back and forth from his city work, the lawyer, day by day,

With the press of eager and toiling men, followed his wonted way;

And Hugh,—he dallied with life at home, tending the garden and grounds;

But the mansion longed for a woman’s voice to soften its lonely sounds.

“Hugh,” said Hermann Van Ghelt, at length, “choose for yourself a wife,Comely, and good, and of birth to match the mother who gave you life.No words of woman have charmed my ear since last I heard her voice;And of fairest and proudest maids her son should make a worthy choice.”

“Hugh,” said Hermann Van Ghelt, at length, “choose for yourself a wife,

Comely, and good, and of birth to match the mother who gave you life.

No words of woman have charmed my ear since last I heard her voice;

And of fairest and proudest maids her son should make a worthy choice.”

But now the young man’s wandering heart from the great world turned away,To long for the healthful Monmouth meads, the shores of the breezy bay;And often the scenes and mates he knew in boyhood he sought again,And roamed through the well-known woods, and lay in the grass where he once had lain.

But now the young man’s wandering heart from the great world turned away,

To long for the healthful Monmouth meads, the shores of the breezy bay;

And often the scenes and mates he knew in boyhood he sought again,

And roamed through the well-known woods, and lay in the grass where he once had lain.

III.Ladies, in silks and laces,Lunching with lips agleam,Know you aught of the placesYielding such fruit and cream?

Ladies, in silks and laces,

Lunching with lips agleam,

Know you aught of the places

Yielding such fruit and cream?

South from your harbor-islandsGlisten the Monmouth hills;There are the ocean highlands,Lowland meadows and rills,

South from your harbor-islands

Glisten the Monmouth hills;

There are the ocean highlands,

Lowland meadows and rills,

Berries in field and garden,Trees with their fruitage low,Maidens (asking your pardon)Handsome as cities show.

Berries in field and garden,

Trees with their fruitage low,

Maidens (asking your pardon)

Handsome as cities show.

Know you that, night and morning,A beautiful water-fay,Covered with strange adorning,Crosses your rippling bay?

Know you that, night and morning,

A beautiful water-fay,

Covered with strange adorning,

Crosses your rippling bay?

Her sides are white and sparkling;She whistles to the shore;Behind, her hair is darkling,And the waters part before.

Her sides are white and sparkling;

She whistles to the shore;

Behind, her hair is darkling,

And the waters part before.

Lightly the waves she measuresUp to the wharves of the town;There, unlading her treasures,Lovingly puts them down.

Lightly the waves she measures

Up to the wharves of the town;

There, unlading her treasures,

Lovingly puts them down.

Come with me, ladies; clusterHere on the western pier;Look at her jewels’ lustre,Changed with the changing year!

Come with me, ladies; cluster

Here on the western pier;

Look at her jewels’ lustre,

Changed with the changing year!

First of the months to woo her,June his strawberries flingsOver her garniture,Bringing her exquisite things;

First of the months to woo her,

June his strawberries flings

Over her garniture,

Bringing her exquisite things;

Rifling his richest casket;Handing her, everywhere,Garnets in crate and basket;Knowing she soon will wear

Rifling his richest casket;

Handing her, everywhere,

Garnets in crate and basket;

Knowing she soon will wear

Blackberry jet and lava,Raspberries ruby-red,Trinkets that August gave her,Over her toilet spread.

Blackberry jet and lava,

Raspberries ruby-red,

Trinkets that August gave her,

Over her toilet spread.

After such gifts have faded,Then the peaches are seen,—Coral and ivory braided,Fit for an Indian queen.

After such gifts have faded,

Then the peaches are seen,—

Coral and ivory braided,

Fit for an Indian queen.

And September will send her,Proud of his wealth, and bold,Melons glowing in splendor,Emeralds set with gold.

And September will send her,

Proud of his wealth, and bold,

Melons glowing in splendor,

Emeralds set with gold.

So she glides to the Narrows,Where the forts are astir:Her speed is a shining arrow’s!Guns are silent for her.

So she glides to the Narrows,

Where the forts are astir:

Her speed is a shining arrow’s!

Guns are silent for her.

So she glides to the ringingBells of the belfried town,Kissing the wharves, and flingingAll of her jewels down.

So she glides to the ringing

Bells of the belfried town,

Kissing the wharves, and flinging

All of her jewels down.

Whence she gathers her riches,Ladies, now would you see?Leaving your city niches,Wander awhile with me.

Whence she gathers her riches,

Ladies, now would you see?

Leaving your city niches,

Wander awhile with me.

IV.1.The strawberry-vines lie in the sun,Their myriad tendrils twined in one;Spread like a carpet of richest dyes,The strawberry-field in sunshine lies.Each timorous berry, blushing red,Has folded the leaves above her head,The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew;But each blushful berry, peering through,Shows like a flock of the underthread,—The crimson woof of a downy clothWhere the elves may kneel and plight their troth.

The strawberry-vines lie in the sun,

Their myriad tendrils twined in one;

Spread like a carpet of richest dyes,

The strawberry-field in sunshine lies.

Each timorous berry, blushing red,

Has folded the leaves above her head,

The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew;

But each blushful berry, peering through,

Shows like a flock of the underthread,—

The crimson woof of a downy cloth

Where the elves may kneel and plight their troth.

2.Run through the rustling vines, to showEach picker an even space to go,Leaders of twinkling cord divideThe field in lanes from side to side;And here and there with patient care,Lifting the leafage everywhere,Rural maidens and mothers dotThe velvet of the strawberry-plot:Fair and freckled, old and young,With baskets at their girdles hung,Searching the plants with no rude haste,Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste:—Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest,First gift of the fruity months, and best.

Run through the rustling vines, to show

Each picker an even space to go,

Leaders of twinkling cord divide

The field in lanes from side to side;

And here and there with patient care,

Lifting the leafage everywhere,

Rural maidens and mothers dot

The velvet of the strawberry-plot:

Fair and freckled, old and young,

With baskets at their girdles hung,

Searching the plants with no rude haste,

Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste:—

Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest,

First gift of the fruity months, and best.

3.Crates of the laden baskets coolUnder the trees at the meadow’s edge,Covered with grass and dripping sedge,And lily-leaves from the shaded pool;Filled, and ready to be borneTo market before the morrow morn.Beside them, gazing at the skies,Hour after hour a young man lies.From the hillside, under the trees,He looks across the field, and seesThe waves that ever beyond it climb,Whitening the rye-slope’s early prime;At times he listens, listlessly,To the tree-toad singing in the tree,Or sees the catbird peck his fillWith feathers adroop and roguish bill.But often, with a pleased unrest,He lifts his glances to the west,Watching the kirtles, red and blue,Which cross the meadow in his view;And he hears, anon, the busy throngSing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song:

Crates of the laden baskets cool

Under the trees at the meadow’s edge,

Covered with grass and dripping sedge,

And lily-leaves from the shaded pool;

Filled, and ready to be borne

To market before the morrow morn.

Beside them, gazing at the skies,

Hour after hour a young man lies.

From the hillside, under the trees,

He looks across the field, and sees

The waves that ever beyond it climb,

Whitening the rye-slope’s early prime;

At times he listens, listlessly,

To the tree-toad singing in the tree,

Or sees the catbird peck his fill

With feathers adroop and roguish bill.

But often, with a pleased unrest,

He lifts his glances to the west,

Watching the kirtles, red and blue,

Which cross the meadow in his view;

And he hears, anon, the busy throng

Sing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song:

4.“Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,Ere the day has reached its nooning;While the skies are fair, and the morning airAwakens the thrush’s tuning.

“Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,

Ere the day has reached its nooning;

While the skies are fair, and the morning air

Awakens the thrush’s tuning.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;

Dark is the grove that lovers know;

Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,

The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stainIs glowing on lips and fingers;The sun has lain in the leafy plain,And the dust of his pinions lingers.

“Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stain

Is glowing on lips and fingers;

The sun has lain in the leafy plain,

And the dust of his pinions lingers.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;

Dark is the grove that lovers know;

Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,

The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Gather the cones which lie concealed,With their vines your foreheads wreathing;The strawberry-field its sweets shall yieldWhile the western winds are breathing.

“Gather the cones which lie concealed,

With their vines your foreheads wreathing;

The strawberry-field its sweets shall yield

While the western winds are breathing.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.”

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;

Dark is the grove that lovers know;

Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,

The reddest and ripest berries grow.”

5.From the far hillside comes againAn echo of the pickers’ strain.Sweetly the group their cadence keep;Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep;The vines are stripped and the song is sung,A joyous labor for old and young;For the blithe children, gleaning behindThe women, marvellous treasures find.

From the far hillside comes again

An echo of the pickers’ strain.

Sweetly the group their cadence keep;

Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep;

The vines are stripped and the song is sung,

A joyous labor for old and young;

For the blithe children, gleaning behind

The women, marvellous treasures find.

6.From the workers a maiden parts:The baskets at her waistband shineWith berries that look like bleeding heartsOf a hundred lovers at her shrine;No Eastern girl were girdled so wellWith silken belt and silver bell.Her slender form is tall and strong;Her voice is the sweetest in the song;Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown,Loose from its bonnet ripples down.Toward the crates, that lie in the shadeOf the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade,She moves from her mates, through happy rowsOf the children loving her as she goes.Alice, our Alice!one and all,Striving to stay her footsteps, call(For children with skilful choice dispenseThe largesse of their innocence);But on, with a sister’s smile, she movesInto the darkness of the groves,And deftly, daintily, one by one,Shelters her baskets from the sun,Under the network, fresh and cool,Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool.

From the workers a maiden parts:

The baskets at her waistband shine

With berries that look like bleeding hearts

Of a hundred lovers at her shrine;

No Eastern girl were girdled so well

With silken belt and silver bell.

Her slender form is tall and strong;

Her voice is the sweetest in the song;

Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown,

Loose from its bonnet ripples down.

Toward the crates, that lie in the shade

Of the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade,

She moves from her mates, through happy rows

Of the children loving her as she goes.

Alice, our Alice!one and all,

Striving to stay her footsteps, call

(For children with skilful choice dispense

The largesse of their innocence);

But on, with a sister’s smile, she moves

Into the darkness of the groves,

And deftly, daintily, one by one,

Shelters her baskets from the sun,

Under the network, fresh and cool,

Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool.

7.Turning her violet eyes, their raysGlistened full in the young man’s gaze;And each at each, for a moment’s space,Looked with a diffident surprise.“Heaven!” thought Hugh, “what artless graceThat laborer’s daughter glorifies!I never saw a fairer face,I never heard a sweeter voice;And oh! were she my father’s choice,My father’s choice and mine were oneIn the strawberry-field and morning sun.”

Turning her violet eyes, their rays

Glistened full in the young man’s gaze;

And each at each, for a moment’s space,

Looked with a diffident surprise.

“Heaven!” thought Hugh, “what artless grace

That laborer’s daughter glorifies!

I never saw a fairer face,

I never heard a sweeter voice;

And oh! were she my father’s choice,

My father’s choice and mine were one

In the strawberry-field and morning sun.”

V.Love, from that summer mornMelting the souls of these two;Love, which some of you knowWho read this poem to-day—Is it the same desire,The strong, ineffable joy,Which Jacob and Rachel felt,When he served her father long years,And the years were swift as days—So great was the love he bore?Race, advancing with time,Growing in thought and deed,Mastering land and sea,Say, does the heart advance,Are its passions more pure and strong?They, like Nature, remain,No more and no less than of yore.Whoso conquers the earth,Winning its riches and fame,Comes to the evening at last,The sunset of threescore years,Confessing that Love was real,All the rest was a dream!The sum of his gains is dross;The song in his praise is mute;The wreath of his laurels fades:But the kiss of his early loveStill burns on his trembling lip,The spirit of one he lovedHallows his dreams at night.A little while, and the scenesOf the play of Life are closed;Come, let us rest an hour,And by the pleasant streams,Under the fresh, green trees,Let us walk hand in hand,And think of the days that were.

Love, from that summer morn

Melting the souls of these two;

Love, which some of you know

Who read this poem to-day—

Is it the same desire,

The strong, ineffable joy,

Which Jacob and Rachel felt,

When he served her father long years,

And the years were swift as days—

So great was the love he bore?

Race, advancing with time,

Growing in thought and deed,

Mastering land and sea,

Say, does the heart advance,

Are its passions more pure and strong?

They, like Nature, remain,

No more and no less than of yore.

Whoso conquers the earth,

Winning its riches and fame,

Comes to the evening at last,

The sunset of threescore years,

Confessing that Love was real,

All the rest was a dream!

The sum of his gains is dross;

The song in his praise is mute;

The wreath of his laurels fades:

But the kiss of his early love

Still burns on his trembling lip,

The spirit of one he loved

Hallows his dreams at night.

A little while, and the scenes

Of the play of Life are closed;

Come, let us rest an hour,

And by the pleasant streams,

Under the fresh, green trees,

Let us walk hand in hand,

And think of the days that were.

VI.1.On river and height and salty moors the haze of autumn fell,And the cloud of a troubled joy enwrapt the face of Hugh as well,—The spell of a secret haunt that far from home his footsteps drew;A love which over the brow of youth the mask of manhood threw.

On river and height and salty moors the haze of autumn fell,

And the cloud of a troubled joy enwrapt the face of Hugh as well,—

The spell of a secret haunt that far from home his footsteps drew;

A love which over the brow of youth the mask of manhood threw.

Birds of the air to the father, at length, the common rumor brought:“Your son,” they sang, “in the cunning toils of a rustic lass is caught!”“A fit betrothal,” the lawyer said, “must make these follies cease;Which shall it be?—the banker’s ward?—Edith, the judge’s niece?”

Birds of the air to the father, at length, the common rumor brought:

“Your son,” they sang, “in the cunning toils of a rustic lass is caught!”

“A fit betrothal,” the lawyer said, “must make these follies cease;

Which shall it be?—the banker’s ward?—Edith, the judge’s niece?”

“Father, I pray”—said Hugh. “O yes!” out-leapt the other’s mood,“I hear of your wanton loiterings; they ill become your blood!If you hold our name at such light worth, forbear to darken the lifeOf this Alice Dale”—“No, Alice Van Ghelt! father, she is my wife.”

“Father, I pray”—said Hugh. “O yes!” out-leapt the other’s mood,

“I hear of your wanton loiterings; they ill become your blood!

If you hold our name at such light worth, forbear to darken the life

Of this Alice Dale”—“No, Alice Van Ghelt! father, she is my wife.”

2.Worldlings, who say the eagle should mate with eagle, after his kind,Nor have learned from what far and diverse cliffs the twain each other find,Yours is the old, old story, of age forgetting its wiser youth;Of eyes which are keen for others’ good and blind to an inward truth.

Worldlings, who say the eagle should mate with eagle, after his kind,

Nor have learned from what far and diverse cliffs the twain each other find,

Yours is the old, old story, of age forgetting its wiser youth;

Of eyes which are keen for others’ good and blind to an inward truth.

But the pride which closed the father’s doors swelled in the young man’s veins,And he led his bride, in the sight of all, through the pleasant Monmouth lanes,To the little farm his grandsire gave, years since, for a birthday gift:Unto such havens unforeseen the barks of our fortune drift!

But the pride which closed the father’s doors swelled in the young man’s veins,

And he led his bride, in the sight of all, through the pleasant Monmouth lanes,

To the little farm his grandsire gave, years since, for a birthday gift:

Unto such havens unforeseen the barks of our fortune drift!

There, for a happy pastoral year, he tilled the teeming field,Scattered the marl above his land, and gathered the orchard’s yield;And Alice, in fair and simple guise, kissed him at even-fall;And her face was to him an angel’s face, and love was all in all.

There, for a happy pastoral year, he tilled the teeming field,

Scattered the marl above his land, and gathered the orchard’s yield;

And Alice, in fair and simple guise, kissed him at even-fall;

And her face was to him an angel’s face, and love was all in all.

—What is this light in the southern sky, painting a red alarm?What is this trumpet call, which sounds through peaceful village and farm,—Jarring the sweet idyllic rest, stilling the children’s throng,Hushing the cricket on the hearth, and the lovers’ evening song?

—What is this light in the southern sky, painting a red alarm?

What is this trumpet call, which sounds through peaceful village and farm,—

Jarring the sweet idyllic rest, stilling the children’s throng,

Hushing the cricket on the hearth, and the lovers’ evening song?

VII.1.War! war! war!Manning of forts on land and ships for sea;Innumerous lips that speak the righteous wrathOf days which have been and again may be;Flashing of tender eyes disdaining tears;A pause of men with indrawn breath,Knowing it awful for the people’s willThus, thus to end the mellow yearsOf harvest, growth, prosperity,And bring the years of famine, fire, and death,Though fear and a nation’s shame are more awful still.

War! war! war!

Manning of forts on land and ships for sea;

Innumerous lips that speak the righteous wrath

Of days which have been and again may be;

Flashing of tender eyes disdaining tears;

A pause of men with indrawn breath,

Knowing it awful for the people’s will

Thus, thus to end the mellow years

Of harvest, growth, prosperity,

And bring the years of famine, fire, and death,

Though fear and a nation’s shame are more awful still.

2.War! war! war!A thundercloud in the South in the early Spring,—The launch of a thunderbolt; and then,With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing,And a rolling echo roused a million men!Then the ploughman left his field;The smith, at his clanging forge,Forged him a sword to wield.From meadow, and mountain-gorge,And the Western plains, they came,Fronting the storm and flame.War! war! war!Heaven aid the right!God nerve the hero’s arm in the fearful fight!God send the women sleep, in the long, long night,When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more!

War! war! war!

A thundercloud in the South in the early Spring,—

The launch of a thunderbolt; and then,

With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing,

And a rolling echo roused a million men!

Then the ploughman left his field;

The smith, at his clanging forge,

Forged him a sword to wield.

From meadow, and mountain-gorge,

And the Western plains, they came,

Fronting the storm and flame.

War! war! war!

Heaven aid the right!

God nerve the hero’s arm in the fearful fight!

God send the women sleep, in the long, long night,

When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more!

VIII.1.Spake each mother to her son,Ere an ancient field was won:“Spartan, who me your mother call,Our country is mother of us all;In her you breathe, and move, and are.In peace, for her to live—in war,For her to die—is, gloriously,A patriot to live and die!”

Spake each mother to her son,

Ere an ancient field was won:

“Spartan, who me your mother call,

Our country is mother of us all;

In her you breathe, and move, and are.

In peace, for her to live—in war,

For her to die—is, gloriously,

A patriot to live and die!”

2.The times are now as grand as thenWith dauntless women, earnest men;For thus the mothers whom we knowBade their sons to battle go;And, with a smile, the loyal NorthSent her million freemen forth.

The times are now as grand as then

With dauntless women, earnest men;

For thus the mothers whom we know

Bade their sons to battle go;

And, with a smile, the loyal North

Sent her million freemen forth.

3.“What men should stronger-hearted beThan we, who dwell by the open sea,Tilling the lands our fathers wonIn battle on the Monmouth Plains?Ah! a memory remains,Telling us what they have done,Teaching us what we should do.Let us send our rightful share,—Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,A hundred riders fleet and true.”

“What men should stronger-hearted be

Than we, who dwell by the open sea,

Tilling the lands our fathers won

In battle on the Monmouth Plains?

Ah! a memory remains,

Telling us what they have done,

Teaching us what we should do.

Let us send our rightful share,—

Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,

A hundred riders fleet and true.”

4.A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:“Were he still here,” their captain thought,“The brave old man who trained my youth,What a leader he would makeWhere the battle’s topmost billows break!The crimes which brought our land to ruth,How in his soul they would have wrought!God help me, no deed of mine shall shameThe honor of my grandsire’s name;And my father shall see how pure and goodRuns in these veins the olden blood.”

A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:

“Were he still here,” their captain thought,

“The brave old man who trained my youth,

What a leader he would make

Where the battle’s topmost billows break!

The crimes which brought our land to ruth,

How in his soul they would have wrought!

God help me, no deed of mine shall shame

The honor of my grandsire’s name;

And my father shall see how pure and good

Runs in these veins the olden blood.”

5.Shore and inland their men have sent:Away, to the mounted regiment,The silver-hazed Potomac heights,The circling raids, the hundred fights,The booth, the bivouac, the tent.Away, from the happy Monmouth farms,To noontide marches, night alarms,Death in the shadowy oaken glades,Emptied saddles, broken blades,—All the turmoil that soldiers knowWho gallop to meet a mortal foe,Some to conquer, some to fall:War hath its chances for one and all.

Shore and inland their men have sent:

Away, to the mounted regiment,

The silver-hazed Potomac heights,

The circling raids, the hundred fights,

The booth, the bivouac, the tent.

Away, from the happy Monmouth farms,

To noontide marches, night alarms,

Death in the shadowy oaken glades,

Emptied saddles, broken blades,—

All the turmoil that soldiers know

Who gallop to meet a mortal foe,

Some to conquer, some to fall:

War hath its chances for one and all.

6.Heroes, who render up their livesOn the country’s fiery altar-stone—They do not offer themselves alone.What shall become of the soldiers’ wives?They stay behind in the lonely cots,Weeding the humble garden-plots;Some to speed the needle and thread,For the soldiers’ children must be fed;All to sigh, through the toilsome day,And at night teach lisping lips to prayFor the fathers marching far away.

Heroes, who render up their lives

On the country’s fiery altar-stone—

They do not offer themselves alone.

What shall become of the soldiers’ wives?

They stay behind in the lonely cots,

Weeding the humble garden-plots;

Some to speed the needle and thread,

For the soldiers’ children must be fed;

All to sigh, through the toilsome day,

And at night teach lisping lips to pray

For the fathers marching far away.

IX.1.Cloud and flame on the dark frontier,Veiling the hosts embattled there:Peace, and a boding stillness, here,Where the wives at home repeat their prayer.

Cloud and flame on the dark frontier,

Veiling the hosts embattled there:

Peace, and a boding stillness, here,

Where the wives at home repeat their prayer.

2.The weary August days are long;The locusts sing a plaintive song,The cattle miss their master’s callWhen they see the sunset shadows fall.The youthful mistress, at even-tide,Stands by the cedarn wicket’s side,With both hands pushing from the frontHer hair, as those who listen are wont;Gazing toward the unknown South,While silent whispers part her mouth:

The weary August days are long;

The locusts sing a plaintive song,

The cattle miss their master’s call

When they see the sunset shadows fall.

The youthful mistress, at even-tide,

Stands by the cedarn wicket’s side,

With both hands pushing from the front

Her hair, as those who listen are wont;

Gazing toward the unknown South,

While silent whispers part her mouth:

3.“O, if a woman could only findOther work than to wait behind,Through midnight dew and noonday drouth,—To wait behind, and fear, and pray!O, if a soldier’s wife could say,—‘Where thou goest, I will go;Kiss thee ere thou meet’st the foe;Where thou lodgest, worst or best,Share and soothe thy broken rest!’—Alas, to stifle her pain, and wait,This was ever a woman’s fate!But the lonely hours at least may bePassed a little nearer thee,And the city thou guardest with thy lifeThou’lt guard more fondly for holding thy wife.”

“O, if a woman could only find

Other work than to wait behind,

Through midnight dew and noonday drouth,—

To wait behind, and fear, and pray!

O, if a soldier’s wife could say,—

‘Where thou goest, I will go;

Kiss thee ere thou meet’st the foe;

Where thou lodgest, worst or best,

Share and soothe thy broken rest!’

—Alas, to stifle her pain, and wait,

This was ever a woman’s fate!

But the lonely hours at least may be

Passed a little nearer thee,

And the city thou guardest with thy life

Thou’lt guard more fondly for holding thy wife.”

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