Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/285

Rh He set his horse to the river,
 * He swam to Newbury town,

And he called up Justice Sewall
 * In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice
 * (Upon whose soul be peace!)

Set his name to the jailer’s warrant
 * For Goodwife Cole’s release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats
 * Went sounding like a flail;

And Goody Cole at cockcrow
 * Came forth from Ipswich jail.


 * “Here is a rhyme: I hardly dare
 * To venture on its theme worn out;
 * What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr
 * Sounds simply silly hereabout;
 * And pipes by lips Arcadian blown
 * Are only tin horns at our own.

Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus.”

sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham
 * Through gaps of leafy green
 * Across the lake were seen,

When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash,
 * In the warm summer weather,
 * Two maidens sat together.

They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood;
 * The beach the keen light smote,
 * The white sail of a boat;

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying;
 * Hardback, and virgin’s-bower,
 * And white-spiked clethra-flower.

With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash,
 * The wood-bird’s plaintive cry,
 * The locust’s sharp reply.

And teased the while, with playful hand, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,
 * Whose uncouth frolic spilled
 * Their baskets berry-filled.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise,
 * Tossed back her queenly head,
 * And lightly laughing, said:

“No bridegroom’s hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold;
 * I tread no cottage-floor;
 * I own no lover poor.

“My love must come on silken wings, With bridal lights of diamond rings,
 * Not foul with kitchen smirch,
 * With tallow-dip for torch.”

The other, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
 * With look for home-hearths meet,
 * And voice exceeding sweet.

Answered, “We will not rivals be; Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
 * Mine be the cottage small,
 * And thine the rich man’s hall.

“I know, indeed, that wealth is good; But lowly roof and simple food,
 * With love that hath no doubt,
 * Are more than gold without.”

Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung,
 * Tracking the yellow plain
 * With windrows of ripe grain.

And still, whene’er he paused to whet His scythe, the sidelong glance he met
 * Of large dark eyes, where strove
 * False pride and secret love.