Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Inside Plum Island
By Harriet Prescott Spofford (18351921)W
With all our sails a-shiver;
The shining tide came softly through,
And filled Plum Island River.
Across the wide green splendor,
Creek swelling creek till all in one
The marshes made surrender.
Between the brimming edges,
And now the depths were dark, and now
The boat slid o’er the sedges.
Amid the great sea meadows,
And here the slumberous waters gloomed
Lucid in emerald shadows.
Encamped along our quarter,
The host of hay-cocks seemed to float
With doubles in the water.
A blue and hazy highland,
And winding down our winding way
The sand-hills of Plum Island,—
For many a dreary acre,
And muffled all its thundering fall
Along the wild South Breaker.
By reedy Rowley drifted,
But far away the Ipswich bar
Its white caps tossed and shifted.
Sometimes a piping plover,
Sometimes there came the lonesome cry
Of white gulls flying over.
A sturgeon splashed, and fleeting
Behind the sheltering thatch we heard
Oars in the rowlocks beating.
The rippling in the rushes,
The gentle gale that struck the sail
In fitful swells and gushes.
Waking a wizard legion,
Wove as we went their ancient spells
In this enchanted region.
Of mist and sunbeams shredded,
That everywhere behind us closed
The labyrinth we threaded.
Its liquid light and azure;
We swung between two heavens, ensphered,
Within their charmed embrasure.
With flickering lustres splendid,
Poised in his perfect flight, we saw
The painted hawk suspended,
With youth and laughter laden,
We saw the red fin of the perch,
We saw the swift manhaden.
The wailing wind give warning;
No whisper saddened us, shut in
With sunshine and the morning.
With all its tumult waited,
Forever here with drooping sails
Would we have hung belated!
And round us curled and sallied,
We skimmed with bubbles on our track,
As glad as when we dallied.
The herds their hollows keeping,
And clouds of wings about her mast
From Swallowbanks were sweeping.
Grew greenly on our vision,
Lifting beneath its waving boughs
Its grassy slopes Elysian.
Creams murmuring up the shingle;
There, all day long, the airs of earth
With airs of heaven mingle.
Singing old songs, nor noted
Another voice that with us sang,
As wing and wing we floated.
With music still was beating,
Voice answering tuneful voice, again
The words we sang repeating.
With elfin carol o’er us,—
More sweet than bird-song in the prime
Rang out the sea-blown chorus.
In all fantastic fashion,
Who syllabled our songs in strains
Remote from human passion?
Filtered through light and distance,
And tossed them gayly to and fro
With such a sweet insistence?
Along the margin flocking,
Dripping with salt dews from the deeps,
Made this melodious mocking?
In airiest, fairiest laughter;
We sang,—a hundred voices quired
And sang the whole song after.
Blew out his bugle cheerly,
And far and wide their horns replied
More silverly and clearly.
Slow and more slowly going,
Flown far, flown far, flown faint and fine,
We heard their horns still blowing.
To other skies alluring,
Down ran the sails; beneath the Bluff
The boat lay at her mooring.