He stopped, alas, alas for John.
That careless step foredoomed his fall.
Next
year the little farm was gone,
Corn-fields and cattle, house and all;
And Meggy learned too late, too late,
Her own self had evoked her fate.
STOP, traveller, just a moment at my gate,
And I will give you news so very sweet
That you will thank me. Where the branches meet
Across your road, and droop, as with the weight
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I pray,
And turn aside a little from your way.
You see the drooping branches overspread
With shadows, as I told you
To the high elm-tree with the dead white bough Loose swinging out of joint, and there, with head Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his wild lay, You see a blackbird: turn your step that way.
Holding along the honeysuckle hedge,
Make for the meadows lying down so low;
Ah! now I need not say that you must go
No further than that little silver wedge
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the flood
Betwixt the hills—you could not, if
For you will see there, as the sun goes down,
And freckles all the daisy leaves with gold,
A little maiden, in their evening fold
Penning two lambs her soft, fawn-colored gown
Tucked over hems of violet, by a hand
Dainty as any lady's in the land.
Such gracious light she will about her bring,
That, when the Day, being wedded to the shade,
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as the maid
Blushes to wear the unused marriage-ring,
And all the quickened clouds do fall astir
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay with her.
No ornaments but her two sapphire eyes,
And the twin roses in her cheeks that grow, The nice-set pearls, that make so fine a show When that she either softly smiles or sighs,
And the long tresses, colored like a beeBrown, with a sunlight shimmer. You will see,
When you have ceased to watch the airy spring
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard by,
The yellow earth about the gnarled roots dry,
And if you hide there, you will hear her sing
That song Kit Marlowe made so long ago-
"Come live with me, and be my love," you know.
Dear soul, you would not be at heaven's high gate
Among the larks, that constellated hour,
Nor locked alone in some green-hearted bower
Among the nightingales, being in your fate,
By fortune's sweet selection, graced above
All grace, to hear that
But when the singer singeth down the sweets
To that most maiden-like and lovely bed -
All out of soft persuasive roses spread·
You must not touch the fair and flowery sheets
Even in your thought! and from your perfect bliss
I furthermore must interdict you this:
When all the wayward mists, because of her,
Lie in their white wings, moveless, on the air,
You must not let the loose net of her hair
Drag your heart to her! nor from hushed breath stir
Out of your sacred hiding. As you guess
She is my love this woodland shepherdess.
The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed along
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old Kit
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it,
To ornament that dulcet piece of song
Immortaled with refrains of - Live with me!
These to your fancy, one and all are free.
But, favored traveller, ere you quit my gate,
Promise to hold it, in your mind to be
Enamored only of the melody,
Else will I pray that all yon woody weight
Of branch and shadow, as you pass along,
Crush you among the echoes of the song.
THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.
IN a patch of clearing, scarcely more
Than his brawny double hands,
With woods behind and woods before,
The Settler's cabin stands ;
A little, low, and lonesome shed,
With a roof of clapboards overhead.
Aye, low, so low the wind-warped eave
Hangs close against the door;
You might almost stretch a bishop's sleeve.
From the rafter to the floor;
And the window is not too large, a whit,
For a lady's veil to curtain it.
The roof-tree's bent and knotty knees
By the Settler's axe are braced,
And the door-yard fence is three felled trees
With their bare arms interlaced;
And a grape-vine, shaggy and rough and red, Swings from the well-sweep's high, sharp head.
And among the stubs, all charred and black, Away to the distant huts,
Winds in and out the wagon-track,
Cut full of zigzag ruts :
And down and down to the sluggish pond, And through and up to the swamps beyond.
And do you ask beneath such thatch
What heart or hope may be?
THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.
Just pull the string of the wooden latch,
And see what you shall see:
A hearth-stone broad and warm and wide,
With master and mistress either side.
And 'twixt them, in the radiant glow,
- Prattling of Christmas joys, With faces in a shining row,
Six children, girls and boys;
And in the cradle a head half-hid
By the shaggy wolf-skin coverlid.
For the baby sleeps in the shaded light
As gently as a lamb,
And two little stockings, scarlet bright,
Are hanging 'gainst the jamb ;
And the yellow cat lies all of a curl
In the lap of a two-years' blue-eyed girl.
On the dresser, saved for weeks and weeks,
A hamper of apples stands,
And some are red as the children's cheeks,
And some are brown as their hands ;
For cakes and apples must stead, you see,
The rich man's costlier Christmas-tree.
A clock that looks like a skeleton,
From the corner ticks out bold;
And that never was such a clock to run
You would hardly need be told,
If you were to see the glances proud
Drawn toward it when it strikes so loud.
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