And waves on the outer rocks afoam And fair are the sunny isles in view Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er; "Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown, The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel Over a floor of burnished steel. Once, in the old Colonial days, Two hundred years ago and more, A boat sailed down through the winding ways Of Hampton River to that low shore, Full of a goodly company Sailing out on the summer sea, Veering to catch the land-breeze light, With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right. In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass, 'Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!" A young man sighed, who saw them pass. Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, Hearing a voice in a far-off song, Watching a white hand beckoning long. ઃઃ "Fie on the witch!" cried a merry girl, As they rounded the point where Goody Cole Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl, "She's cursed," said the skipper; "speak her fair: I'm scary always to see her shake Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair, And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake." But merrily still, with laugh and shout, From Hampton River the boat sailed out, Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh, And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye. They dropped their lines in the lazy tide, Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea But he spake like a brave man cheerily, "Yet there is time for our homeward run." Veering and tacking, they backward wore; And just as a breath from the woods ashore Blew out to whisper of danger past, The wrath of the storm came down at last! The skipper hauled at the heavy sail: "God be our help!" he only cried, Goody Cole looked out from her door: The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone, She clasped her hands with a grip of pain, Suddenly seaward swept the squall; The low sun smote through cloudy rack; O mower, lean on thy bended snath, Look from the meadows green and low: The wind of the sea is a waft of death, O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight From sand and seaweed where they lay. Solemn it was in that old day In Hampton town and its log-built church, Where side by side the coffins lay And the mourners stood in aisle and porch. In the singing-seats young eyes were dim, The voices faltered that raised the hymn And Father Dalton, grave and stern, Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn. But his ancient colleague did not pray, He stood apart, with the iron-gray Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears. And a wretched woman, holding her breath In the awful presence of sin and death, Cowered and shrank, while her neighbors thronged To look on the dead her shame had wronged. Apart with them, like them forbid, Old Goody Cole looked drearily round, As, two by two, with their faces hid, The mourners walked to the burying-ground. She let the staff from her clasped hands fall: "Lord, forgive us! we 're sinners all!" And the voice of the old man answered her: "Amen!" said Father Bachiler. So, as I sat upon Appledore In the calm of a closing summer day, Beat the rhythm and kept the time. And the sunset paled, and warmed once more In the east was moonrise, with boats off-shore John Greenleaf Whittier. |