Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17.djvu/158

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

With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash, &emsp;The wood-bird's plaintive cry, &emsp;The locust's sharp reply. And teased the while, with playful hand, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, &emsp;Whose uncouth frolic spilled &emsp;Their baskets berry-filled. Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, &emsp;Tossed back her queenly head, &emsp;And, lightly laughing, said,— "No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold; &emsp;I tread no cottage-floor; &emsp;I own no lover poor. "My love must come on silken wings, With bridal lights of diamond rings,— &emsp;Not foul with kitchen smirch, &emsp;With tallow-dip for torch." The other, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed, &emsp;With look for home-hearths meet, &emsp;And voice exceeding sweet, Answered,—"We will not rivals be; Take thou the gold, leave love to me; &emsp;Mine be the cottage small, &emsp;And thine the rich man's hall. "I know, indeed, that wealth is good; But lowly roof and simple food, &emsp;With love that hath no doubt, &emsp;Are more than gold without." Behind the wild grape's tangled screen, Beholding them, himself unseen, &emsp;A young man, straying near, &emsp;The maidens chanced to hear. He saw the pride of beauty born, He heard the red lips' words of scorn; &emsp;And, like a silver bell, &emsp;That sweet voice answering well.