Part 1

HEART OF NEW ENGLAND

Heart of New England

By Abbie Farwell Brown

[Illustration: [Logo]]

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY =The Riverside Press Cambridge= 1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

=To The Memory of my Ancestor Mary Allerton Cushman Last of the Mayflower Pilgrims=

Thanks are due the publishers of various magazines for courteous permission to reprint poems that first appeared in their pages, as follows: _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Bookman_, _The Bellman_, _Contemporary Verse_, _The Delineator_, _The Designer_, _The Ladies’ Home Journal_, _The Woman’s Home Companion_, _The Smart Set_, _The Youth’s Companion_, _The Living Church_, _The Christian Endeavor World_, _The Congregationalist_, _The New England Magazine_, _Life_, _Saint Nicholas_, _Radcliffe Quarterly_, _Boston Transcript_, _Boston Herald_, _New York Tribune_, _New York Times_, _The Old Farmer’s Almanack_.

“The Rock of Liberty; A Pilgrim Ode,” with music for Chorus by Rosseter Cole, is copyrighted and published in 1920 by the Arthur P. Schmidt Company, of Boston.

CONTENTS

EAST WIND 2 NAMES 3 COMFORTERS 6 PILGRIM MOTHERS 9 CROSS-CURRENTS 11 SAVAGES 14 PIRATE TREASURE 16 THE WALL 19 HAMPTON TOWN 22 THE OLD GARDEN 24 GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE 25 GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN 27 THE FRIGHTENED PATH 28 DEVIL’S GOLD: A HAMPTON LEGEND 29 THE HAUNTED HOUSE 32 ROSE PERENNIAL 34 SCARECROW 37 INSPIRATION 39 A WASTED MORNING 40 CIPHERS 42 PINE MUSIC 44 MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS 45 IN THE DARK 47 GARDEN THOUGHTS 48 THE PASSER-BY 49 FROST 51 WINTER SONG 53 TANAGER 54 SONG 56 THE KNOCK 57 AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN 59 A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY 61 THE BLAZED TRAIL 64 BUT THERE ARE WINGS 66 SAFE? 67 THE UP-HILL STREET 68 CITY SMOKE 71 GREEN CROSSES 73 THE MYSTIC CIRCLE 76 SONG OF THE BOOKWORM 80 THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ 82 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 83 THE JOY-VENDER 85 THE SPARROW 88 SYLVIA 90 THE PLUME 91 THE WOODSY ONES 93 THE WEE KNITTER 94 A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK 96 FAIRY RING 98 DANGEROUS PASSING 99 THE DRYAD 101 FAIRY WINE 103 WEBS 104 THE FAIRY FORT 105 ───────────────────────────────────────────────── PEACE—WITH A SWORD 109 THE CRY 112 CRUSADERS 114 THE KNIGHTS 115 FROM THE CANTEEN 117 CRIPPLED SOLDIER 119 THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT 121 THREE GOLDEN STARS 123 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 126 PRAYER FOR AMERICA 128 ───────────────────────────────────────────────── THE ROCK OF LIBERTY; A PILGRIM ODE. 1620–1920 131

HEART OF NEW ENGLAND

EAST WIND

_I dream of a languorous, tideless shore, Of azure light in magic caves; Of heathery hills with summits hoar, That wade knee-deep in northern waves; Of rainbow sails like butterflies That flutter to an Old World quay; Of where a buried city lies Beneath the sands of Brittany._

_Nay! But my own New England coast, Pungent with wild rose, pine, and bay; Brown marsh, white sand, gray rocks that boast The fiercest surf, the wildest spray! Ho! For me, Where the white, white sails go flashing to the sea; And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_

_I dream of a castle-covered height; Of gardens with eternal flowers, And mossy fountains gleaming white; Of lemon groves and myrtle bowers; Of fairy glens and haunted halls, Where mystery walks to and fro; Of palaces on gay canals; Of English green, and Alpenglow._

_Nay! But New England’s apple trees, Her homely houses, square and plain, The simple gardens loved of bees, The maple groves, the firs of Maine! Ho! For me, Where the spring comes slowly, like a play to see; And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_

Heart of New England ⁂

NAMES

From Somerset and Devon, From Kent and Lincolnshire, The younger sons came sailing With hearts of steel and fire.

From leafy lane and valley, Fair glebe and ancient wood, The counties of old England Poured forth their warmest blood.

Out of the gray-walled cities, Away from the castled towns, Corners of thatch and roses, Heathery combes and downs,

With neither crown nor penny, But an iron will they came, Heirs of an old tradition And a good old English name.

A brooding silence met them On a nameless, savage shore; But they called the wild—“New England,” For the sake of the blood they bore.

“_Plymouth_, _Exeter_, _Bristol_, _Boston_, _Windsor_, _Wells_.” Beloved names of England Rang in their hearts like bells.

They named their rocky farmlands, Their hamlets by the sea, For the mother-towns that bred them In racial loyalty.

“_Cambridge_, _Hartford_, _Gloucester_, _Hampton_, _Norwich_, _Stowe_.” The younger sons looked backward And sealed their sonship so.

The old blood thrills in answer, As centuries go by, To names that meant a challenge, A signal, or a sigh.

Now over friendly waters The old towns, each to each, Call with the kinship in a name; One race, one truth, one speech.

COMFORTERS

Raw April came. The snow was melting fast From the bleak Plymouth hills. The _Mayflower_, Who had been fretting at her anchor-chains Through the unfriendly weeks of rain and snow, Flew like a homing pigeon out to sea, With treacherous captain and a sulky crew. But not one of the Faithful was returning. Iron of purpose, worn but undismayed By the fell winter, on a little hill That bedded half the flock in a long sleep, Pale Pilgrims watched the shining sails grow dim, With straining vision. So, the final link With home was severed now! The happy ship Was homeward bound to the belovèd land, Where soon the may would blossom in the hedges Of Kent and Suffolk; while in Lincolnshire The friendly robin sang by flooding tides. “Never again to see the green of England Or hear that song!” they murmured. “Never again! For us sad exiles on a barren shore, Sorrow and toil till death, uncomforted. Yet the Lord’s will be done!” Running there came A little maid with treasure-trove in hand, A flushed and furry blossom. “Look!” she cried, “The first pink posy peeping through the snow Upon a sunny hillside in the wood! Is it not like the precious English may, But sweeter still?” “Behold, the mayflower!” The Pilgrims whispered. “God has sent to us A messenger of homeland and the spring!” The wistful shadow faded from their eyes, Their set lips softened. Came a little lad, Leaping and laughing. “I have heard a song! A redbreast bubbling in the willow-tree Caroled ‘Cheer up! Cheer up!’ See where he flies With his bright feathers!” Eagerly they peered, Elder and Captain, man and weary wife, Orphans with little faces pinched and pale. Forgetting now the vanished ship, they cried— “The robin and the mayflower are here! Now in New England shall we be at home, God wills it so.” Thereon they shyly smiled, Straightened bent shoulders, and with lifted hearts Slowly departed; thinking more than speaking, In the old English fashion.

PILGRIM MOTHERS

Now thank God for the women Who dared the perilous sea With our adventurous ancestors, To bear them company!

They sailed, they knew not whither, They came, nor questioned why, But that the men-folk whom they loved Without their care would die.

Babes newly born they carried, And bairns with wavering feet; But never a cow was there for milk, And never a stove for heat.

Through icy waves they landed, They washed in frozen streams; They shivered through the nights of dread With horror in their dreams.

Through toil and want and danger High-hearted they could wait; They lived and died for the commonweal, And mothered a nursling State.

They had no voice in meeting, No vote in pact or law; But of their flesh and blood is built Our strength for peace and war.

Thank God for the brave women Of a hard three-hundred years! Have they not earned a nation’s trust Through sacrifice and tears?

CROSS-CURRENTS

Through twelve stout generations New England blood I boast; The stubborn pastures bred them, The grim, uncordial coast,

Sedate and proud old cities— Loved well enough by me. Then how should I be yearning To scour the earth and sea?

Each of my Yankee forbears Wed a New England mate; They dwelt and did and died here, Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.

My clan endured their kindred; But foreigners they loathed, And wandering folk, and minstrels, And gypsies motley-clothed.

Then why do patches please me, Fantastic, wild array? Why have I vagrant fancies For lads from far away?

My kin were godly Churchmen— Or paced in elders’ weeds; But all were grave and pious And hated heathen creeds.

Then why are Thor and Wotan To me dread forces still? Why does my heart go questing For Pan beyond the hill?

My people clutched at freedom, (Though others’ wills they chained) But made the Law and kept it, And Beauty they restrained.

Then why am I a rebel To laws of rule and square? Why would I dream and dally, Or, reckless, do and dare?

O righteous, solemn Grandsires, O Dames, correct and mild, Who bred me of your virtues, Whence comes this changeling child?

The thirteenth generation— Unlucky number this!— My grandam loved a pirate, And all my faults are his.

A gallant, ruffled rover, With beauty-loving eye, He swept Colonial waters Of coarser, bloodier fry.

He waved his hat to Danger, At Law he shook his fist. Ah, merrily he plundered, He sang and fought and kissed!

Though none have found his treasure, And none his part would take, I bless that thirteenth lady Who chose him for my sake.

SAVAGES

The Heathen hailed us from the beach, Prayed the new gods to bless and teach. They worshiped us and gave us food, Sweet water and maize, nuts from the wood; Showed us safe harbor. Liquor and beads Got us broad acres for our needs; We set shrewd boundaries to the farms. Too generously we loaned them arms; Froward they grew and scorned our laws, They bared white fangs, unsheathed fierce claws. Haunts in the wilderness they made To spy upon our barricade, Our meeting-house and granaries, Coveting them with cruel eyes. One stole a heifer from our yard; We hanged the whelp; they scalped our guard; We shot their chief and eight tall braves. The devils swarmed from dens and caves, And burned the roofs above our heads; Murdered the children in their beds! With righteous wrath we armed for war, Scouring the forest near and far, River and lake with uncouth name, All the fair region once their claim, Killing the Redskin fiends at sight. At last we rid us of the blight; We made the savage race to cease, And earned a Sabbath Day of peace. We walled the tilth and reared this town.

O great Jehovah looking down, Reward our pious people still, Who set Thy temple on the hill.

PIRATE TREASURE

A lady loved a swaggering rover, The seven salt seas he voyaged over, Bragged of a hoard none could discover, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

She bloomed in a mansion dull and stately, And as to Meeting she walked sedately, From the tail of her eye she liked him greatly, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Rings in his ears and a red sash wore he, He sang her a song and told her a story; “I’ll make ye Queen of the Ocean!” swore he, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

She crept from bed by her sleeping sister; By the old gray mill he met and kissed her. Blue day dawned before they missed her, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

And while they prayed her out of Meeting, Her wild little heart with bliss was beating, As seaward went the lugger fleeting, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Choose in haste and repent at leisure; A buccaneer life is not all pleasure. He set her ashore with a little treasure, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Off he went where waves were dashing, Knives were gleaming, cutlasses clashing; And a ship on jagged rocks went crashing. Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Over his bones the tides are sweeping; The only trace of the pirate sleeping Is what he left in the lady’s keeping, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Two hundred years is his name unspoken, The secret of his hoard unbroken. But a black-browed race wears the rover’s token, Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

Sea-blue eyes that gleam and glisten, Lips that sing—and you like to listen— A swaggering song; it might be this one, “Hey! Jolly Roger, O!”

THE WALL

“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall” ROBERT FROST

“Not love a wall!” I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall, Tracing the gray redoubt from square to square That bounds the acres harvest-ripe and fair, And wonder if it’s true? Nay! Ask the sumac and the teeming vine That lean upon the boulders; The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine, Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders; The golden-rod, the aster, and the rue. Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek Skipping from stone to stone By a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek, Making the little viaduct his own. Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head Between the rocks, close by the cabbage bed; The honey-bees have built a secret hive In a forgotten chink; And there a gray cocoon is tucked away, Shrouding a miracle of mauve and pink To wait its Easter Day. The wall with pageantry is all alive.

And I who gaze On the dark border here, Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, Embroidered with the glory of the year— What is the wall to me? Has it no beauty more than eyes can see? Lo, I remember how in days of old A grandsire toiled with weariness and pain To dig the clumsy boulders from the mould; Piled them in ordered rows again, Fitting them firm and fast, A monument to last Long after his own harried day was past. He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain By which his children throve To carry on the race. We live by his life-giving. I see each stone, rough like his granite face— Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, Dowered with little grace, Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living; But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, And bolts that heaven lets fall. Built of a patriot’s prime— How well I love the wall!

HAMPTON TOWN

The Hampton marshes to the sea Stretch out a colored tapestry; A woven, iridescent gleam, Patterned with many a sea-filled stream, Where dips the heron silently.

Above the Hampton meadows soar Wisps of a quaint, forgotten lore, Wild legends of another day, Sea-born and salty, like the spray Flung from the great tusks of the Boar.

And as I wander down the street Of Hampton Town with loitering feet, A fragrance breathes from gardens old, Drawn from the centuries of mould, Thyme, bleeding-heart, and bitter-sweet.

The ghosts of lovely ladies rise, With terror in their haunted eyes; Witches and redskins, soldiers grim; Pirate and Puritan—oath and hymn— All in a web whose threads I share.

The Hampton pines these legends know, And gossip them in whispers low. They spin an eerie charm that twines About the lovely Place of Pines, To blood that throbs from long ago.

THE OLD GARDEN

I chanced upon the little bowered retreat For the first time, and never shall forget The spell of tangled mystery! The wet Bejeweled leaves like fingers curled to meet My childish hand; the unimagined sweet Of briar, heliotrope, and mignonette; The tang of box, and quainter blossoms set By mazy paths for liliputian feet.

High walls of hollyhock and morning-glory Concealed the ancient house with gables wide; Shut out the world of swift and merry hours. In the long silence of a fairy-story My heart stood still. Then, at a turn I spied My Mother, smiling at the other flowers.

GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE

Grandmother’s house is far away. You take the train and you ride all day, Till you come to a meadow beside the sea, As green and still as a place can be.

In a little white room is a little white bed; The pillow is sweet where you lay your head; And all around is the scent of rose, That breathes wherever Grandmother goes.

Down in the meadow the crickets trill As if they thought it was daytime still; “_Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheepy, cheepy! Cheep! Cheep!_” Oh, how can a body go to sleep?

All alone you lie and hark To the curious sounds that come in the dark; For the wall says “_Crick!_” And the floor goes “_Creak!_” Then out in the hall is a rustle and squeak.

A wee voice cries and is still again; Then Something taps on the window-pane. There’s a whispering in the tree outside, And a sigh, that Grandmother _says_ is the tide.

Grandmother’s house is nice by day, But at night you seem very far away. And the noise of the quiet is so loud, It bothers you more than the noise of a crowd.

GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN

This was the garden that Grandmother made, Here in the filtering sunlight and shade. Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies, Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses, Balsam and lavender, briar and box, Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks; Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet, Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet. And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all, Mother went tiptoeing when she was small.

This is the garden that Grandmother made— New buds to open as older ones fade. With her wee waterpot making the showers, _My_ mother dallied with _her_ mother’s flowers; Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose, Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows; Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw, And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw. But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it, Why, where should _I_ be this blessed minute?

THE FRIGHTENED PATH

The wood grew very quiet As the road made a sudden turn; Then a wavering, furtive path crept out From the tangled briar and fern.

“Where does it lead?” I asked the child; She shivered and shook her head. “It doesn’t _lead_ to any place. It is running away!” she said.

“It is running away on tiptoe Through the untrodden grass, To join the cheerful highroad, Where real, live people pass.

“It runs from a heap of ruins Where a home stood in old days; But nothing living goes there now, And—Nothing Living stays!”

DEVIL’S GOLD

A HAMPTON LEGEND

The General rolled in a coach-and-four, His head held high in pride; And Mary, who should have married me, Cowered in silk at his side.

The mud of the General’s chariot-wheels Grimed me, plodding by; But I saw a doom on his pallid face, And met the fear in her eye.

For well she knew—as I know now, As neighbors guessed full well— He had sold his soul for a bootful of gold To the Devil himself from Hell.

· · · · ·

He called from the hearth of his paneled hall To the Fiend on the chimney-crown; His jack-boot stood in the chimney-place, And the gold came pouring down.

The gold poured down in a tinkling flood, And covered the great hall floor; But the General roared to the Devil above— “Nay! more! and more! and more!”

For the great jack-boot was never filled Till the gold lay three-foot thick; The bargainer had cut the toe, And fooled the Fiend by the trick.

But the lady shivered in the dark At the roar of the General’s mirth; While brimstone flashes seared the roof, And the Fiend’s wrath shook the earth.

· · · · ·

I read in the face of the smitten man As he passed me on that day, And in the haunted lady’s eye— That his hour was near to _pay_.

And when we bore the General’s bier To his proud tomb up the road, Ten of the sturdiest lads in town Staggered beneath the load.

Ten of the sturdiest lads in town Turned pale as lime-bleached bones When their burden dropped and the cover loosed; The coffin was filled with stones!

My Mary fled from the haunted house To toil as a poor man’s wife; For not one pound of her widow’s wealth Would I suffer to curse our life.

The only dower she brought away Was the terrible tale she told; And our children bred in a humble home Are marked with the hate of gold.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

Upon a little rise it stands alone, Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet; The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street From walls with mould and mosses overgrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door, And bend above the latch with prying eyes, Or shake their heads and whisper, gossipwise, Secrets that trouble living hearts no more.

The rusty hinges give a warning scream; The jealous panels shudder as they swing. About my face the dusty cobwebs cling, Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream.

There is a window looking to the sea; The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears. Here long ago a young bride felt the fears That even now creep coldly over me.

Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan, But felt an unseen presence fill the door, And heard a light step steal across the floor, And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own....

Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair. A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh; A silken rustle lightly whispers by; A fragrance as of roses fills the air.

ROSE PERENNIAL

The worn gray slab yet lies before What once was a thrifty farmer’s door; Now roofless cellar and scattered stones Show skeleton hopes with time-picked bones. Here backed against a crumbling wall Still blooms at bay, unpruned and tall, A soil-disdaining moss-rose bush, The delicate buds in faintest flush, Clutched by the brambles and woodbine, Whose envious fingers tear and twine.

There was the huge barn; here the yard, Where the grim farmer labored hard From dawn to dark, and never knew A dream beyond the crops he grew, The stock he raised, the silver store Under the loose board in the floor.

To and fro, to and fro, The feet of his little wife would go, All day long and half the night, Up a flight and down a flight; Pantry to kitchen, pen to barn, Cellar to garret with loom of yarn; In to the babies, out to the men, Down to the pasture and back again. Farms were never planned, you find, To save the steps of womenkind.

One can trudge and drudge through a long life’s course, If she discover a hidden source To seek when the spirit is faint and dry.

Here was her rosebush growing high, That he never knew—for he never cared; This was her joy no mortal shared. Her hands were never too stiff or tired To foster beauty the soul desired; The first shy green, the venturesome shoot, Flushing sap from the sturdy root, Moss-veiled bud and passionate bloom; Scarlet hips for the winter gloom. Never too worn the busy feet, Never too dull the old heart’s beat, For a furtive trip to the little shrine That made the moment a pause divine.

Here by the bush one glimpsed the Hills, Where forests crooned and ran free rills; One breathed deep draughts from a windswept sky, Sunset, moonglow, mystery.

This was her rosebush by the wall. Gone is the farmer, farm and all; Gone herd and crops and silver store. The children grown return no more To the hearth deserted, the loveless place, Haunted by one enduring grace; A dream of beauty, torn with briar, Clutched in vain as it reaches higher.

SCARECROW

Rags and tags of what he was, Topped with straw and stuffed with hay; Balanced tipsily askew, It grins to scare the crows away.