John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
The Tent on the BeachThe Maids of Attitash
I
And the blue hills of Nottingham
Through gaps of leafy green
Across the lake were seen,
That dreams its dream in Attitash,
In the warm summer weather,
Two maidens sat together.
The gleam and shade of lake and wood;
The beach the keen light smote,
The white sail of a boat;
In sweetness, not in music, dying;
Hardhack, and virgin’s-bower,
And white-spiked clethra-flower.
And breezy wash of Attitash,
The wood-bird’s plaintive cry,
The locust’s sharp reply.
The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,
Whose uncouth frolic spilled
Their baskets berry-filled.
Was evermore a great surprise,
Tossed back her queenly head,
And, lightly laughing, said:
That is not lined with yellow gold;
I tread no cottage-floor;
I own no lover poor.
With bridal lights of diamond rings,
Not foul with kitchen smirch,
With tallow-dip for torch.”
Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
With look for home-hearths meet,
And voice exceeding sweet,
Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
Mine be the cottage small,
And thine the rich man’s hall.
But lowly roof and simple food,
With love that hath no doubt,
Are more than gold without.”
His cradle in the rye-field swung,
Tracking the yellow plain
With windrows of ripe grain.
His scythe, the sidelong glance he met
Of large dark eyes, where strove
False pride and secret love.
That love shall overmatch disdain,
Its instincts soon or late
The heart shall vindicate.
Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod
The margin of the pond,
Watching the group beyond.
Unfelt the turning tides of doom;
And so the maids laughed on,
Nor dreamed what Fate had done,—
That rustled in the birchen trees,
As, with their lives forecast,
Fisher and mower passed.
The summer roses paled and died,
And Autumn’s fingers shed
The maple’s leaves of red.
Alone, but for the diving loon,
The partridge in the brake,
The black duck on the lake,
Sat man and maid by Attitash;
And earth and air made room
For human hearts to bloom.
And scarlet-oak and golden-rod
With blushes and with smiles
Lit up the forest aisles.
The pebbled margin’s ripple-chant
Attempered and low-toned,
The tender mystery owned.
Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed;
The sunshine seemed to bless,
The air was a caress.
With scornful toss of midnight hair,
Her dark, disdainful eyes,
And proud lip worldly-wise.
But all she dreamed and coveted
Wears, half to her surprise,
The youthful farmer’s guise!
She walks the rye-field at his side,
Careless of cot or hall,
Since love transfigures all.
Of life is gained; her hands have found
The talisman of old
That changes all to gold.
With all its glittering accidents,
And trust her heart alone,
Finds love and gold her own.
Awaits her; but her cup is filled
Even now unto the brim;
Her world is love and him!
The while he heard, the Book-man drew
A length of make-believing face,
With smothered mischief laughing through:
“Why, you shall sit in Ramsay’s place,
And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep
On Yankee hills immortal sheep,
While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond
Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond.”
Singing of love the Trouvere’s lay!
How should he know the blindfold lad
From one of Vulcan’s forge-boys?”—“Nay,
He better sees who stands outside
Than they who in procession ride,”
The Reader answered: “selectmen and squire
Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.
Our travelled friend will own as one
Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth
And lips of Christian Andersen.
They tell it in the valleys green
Of the fair island he has seen,
Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,
Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore.”