The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 19

Why seeks the knight that rocky cape Beyond the Bay of Lynn?

What chance his wayward course may shape To reach its village inn?

No story tells; whate'er we guess, The past lies deaf and still, But Fate, who rules to blight or bless, Can lead us where she will.

Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, And liveried grooms that ride!

They cross the ferry, touch the sh.o.r.e On Winnisimmet's side.

They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,-- The level marsh they pa.s.s, Where miles on miles the desert reach Is rough with bitter gra.s.s.

The s.h.i.+ning horses foam and pant, And now the smells begin Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant, And leather-scented Lynn.

Next, on their left, the slender spires And glittering vanes that crown The home of Salem's frugal sires, The old, witch-haunted town.

So onward, o'er the rugged way That runs through rocks and sand, Showered by the tempest-driven spray, From bays on either hand,

That shut between their outstretched arms The crews of Marblehead, The lords of ocean's watery farms, Who plough the waves for bread.

At last the ancient inn appears, The spreading elm below, Whose flapping sign these fifty years Has seesawed to and fro.

How fair the azure fields in sight Before the low-browed inn The tumbling billows fringe with light The crescent sh.o.r.e of Lynn;

Nahant thrusts outward through the waves Her arm of yellow sand, And breaks the roaring surge that braves The gauntlet on her hand;

With eddying whirl the waters lock Yon treeless mound forlorn, The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock, That fronts the Spouting Horn;

Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, And wide the ocean smiles, Till, sh.o.r.eward bent, his streams divide The two bare Misery Isles.

The master's silent signal stays The wearied cavalcade; The coachman reins his smoking bays Beneath the elm-tree's shade.

A gathering on the village green!

The c.o.c.ked-hats crowd to see, On legs in ancient velveteen, With buckles at the knee.

A cl.u.s.tering round the tavern-door Of square-toed village boys, Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, The old-world corduroys!

A scampering at the "Fountain" inn,--- A rush of great and small,-- With hurrying servants' mingled din And screaming matron's call.

Poor Agnes! with her work half done They caught her unaware; As, humbly, like a praying nun, She knelt upon the stair;

Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien She knelt, but not to pray,-- Her little hands must keep them clean, And wash their stains away.

A foot, an ankle, bare and white, Her girlish shapes betrayed,-- "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight; "Look up, my beauteous Maid!"

She turned,--a reddening rose in bud, Its calyx half withdrawn,-- Her cheek on fire with damasked blood Of girlhood's glowing dawn!

He searched her features through and through, As royal lovers look On lowly maidens, when they woo Without the ring and book.

"Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet!

Nay, prithee, look not down!

Take this to shoe those little feet,"-- He tossed a silver crown.

A sudden paleness struck her brow,-- A swifter blush succeeds; It burns her cheek; it kindles now Beneath her golden beads.

She flitted, but the glittering eye Still sought the lovely face.

Who was she? What, and whence? and why Doomed to such menial place?

A skipper's daughter,--so they said,-- Left orphan by the gale That cost the fleet of Marblehead And Gloucester thirty sail.

Ah! many a lonely home is found Along the Ess.e.x sh.o.r.e, That cheered its goodman outward bound, And sees his face no more!

"Not so," the matron whispered,--"sure No orphan girl is she,-- The Surriage folk are deadly poor Since Edward left the sea,

"And Mary, with her growing brood, Has work enough to do To find the children clothes and food With Thomas, John, and Hugh.

"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,-- (Just turned her sixteenth year,)-- To earn her bread and help them all, Would work as housemaid here."

So Agnes, with her golden beads, And naught beside as dower, Grew at the wayside with the weeds, Herself a garden-flower.

'T was strange, 't was sad,--so fresh, so fair!

Thus Pity's voice began.

Such grace! an angel's shape and air!

The half-heard whisper ran.

For eyes could see in George's time, As now in later days, And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme, The honeyed breath of praise.

No time to woo! The train must go Long ere the sun is down, To reach, before the night-winds blow, The many-steepled town.

'T is midnight,--street and square are still; Dark roll the whispering waves That lap the piers beneath the hill Ridged thick with ancient graves.

Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth The weary couch of pain, When all thy poppies fail to soothe The lover's throbbing brain!

'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun Peals o'er the glistening bay.

"Thank G.o.d 't is day!" With eager eye He hails the morning s.h.i.+ne:-- "If art can win, or gold can buy, The maiden shall be mine!"

PART THIRD

THE CONQUEST

"Who saw this hussy when she came?

What is the wench, and who?"

They whisper. "Agnes--is her name?

Pray what has she to do?"

The housemaids parley at the gate, The scullions on the stair, And in the footmen's grave debate The butler deigns to share.

Black Dinah, stolen when a child, And sold on Boston pier, Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, Speaks in the coachman's ear: