Among The Hills

PRELUDE     Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold     That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,     Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod,     And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers     Hang motionless upon their upright staves.     The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind,     Vying-weary with its long flight from the south,     Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf     With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams,     Confesses it. The locust by the wall     Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.     A single hay-cart down the dusty road     Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep     On the loads top. Against the neighboring hill,     Huddled along the stone walls shady side,     The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still     Defied the dog-star. Through the open door     A drowsy smell of flowers-gray heliotrope,     And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette,     Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends     To the pervading symphony of peace.     No time is this for hands long over-worn     To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise     Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain     Of years that did the work of centuries     Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more     Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters     Make glad their nooning underneath the elms     With tale and riddle and old snatch of song,     I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn     The leaves of memorys sketch-book, dreaming oer     Old summer pictures of the quiet hills,     And human life, as quiet, at their feet.     And yet not idly all. A farmers son,     Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling     All their fine possibilities, how rich     And restful even poverty and toil     Become when beauty, harmony, and love     Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat     At evening in the patriarchs tent, when man     Makes labor noble, and his farmers frock     The symbol of a Christian chivalry     Tender and just and generous to her     Who clothes with grace all duty; still, I know     Too well the picture has another side,     How wearily the grind of toil goes on     Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear     And heart are starved amidst the plenitude     Of nature, and how hard and colorless     Is life without an atmosphere. I look     Across the lapse of half a century,     And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower     Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds,     Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place     Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose     And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed     Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine     To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves     Across the curtainless windows, from whose panes     Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness.     Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, unwashed     (Broom-clean I think they called it); the best room     Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air     In hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless,     Save the inevitable sampler hung     Over the fireplace, or a mourning piece,     A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath     Impossible willows; the wide-throated hearth     Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing     The piled-up rubbish at the chimneys back;     And, in sad keeping with all things about them,     Shrill, querulous-women, sour and sullen men,     Untidy, loveless, old before their time,     With scarce a human interest save their own     Monotonous round of small economies,     Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood;     Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed,     Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet;     For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink     Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves;     For them in vain Octobers holocaust     Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills,     The sacramental mystery of the woods.     Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers,     But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent,     Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls     And winter pork with the least possible outlay     Of salt and sanctity; in daily life     Showing as little actual comprehension     Of Christian charity and love and duty,     As if the Sermon on the Mount had been     Outdated like a last years almanac     Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields,     And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless,     The veriest straggler limping on his rounds,     The sun and air his sole inheritance,     Laughed at a poverty that paid its taxes,     And hugged his rags in self-complacency!     Not such should be the homesteads of a land     Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell     As king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state,     With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make     His hour of leisure richer than a life     Of fourscore to the barons of old time,     Our yeoman should be equal to his home     Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled,     A man to match his mountains, not to creep     Dwarfed and abased below them. I would fain     In this light way (of which I needs must own     With the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings,     Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you!)     Invite the eye to see and heart to feel     The beauty and the joy within their reach,     Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes     Of nature free to all. Haply in years     That wait to take the places of our own,     Heard where some breezy balcony looks down     On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon     Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth,     In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet     Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine     May seem the burden of a prophecy,     Finding its late fulfilment in a change     Slow as the oaks growth, lifting manhood up     Through broader culture, finer manners, love,     And reverence, to the level of the hills.     O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn,     And not of sunset, forward, not behind,     Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee bring     All the old virtues, whatsoever things     Are pure and honest and of good repute,     But add thereto whatever bard has sung     Or seer has told of when in trance and dream     They saw the Happy Isles of prophecy     Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth divide     Between the right and wrong; but give the heart     The freedom of its fair inheritance;     Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so long,     At Natures table feast his ear and eye     With joy and wonder; let all harmonies     Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon     The princely guest, whether in soft attire     Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil,     And, lending life to the dead form of faith,     Give human nature reverence for the sake     Of One who bore it, making it divine     With the ineffable tenderness of God;     Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer,     The heirship of an unknown destiny,     The unsolved mystery round about us, make     A man more precious than the gold of Ophir.     Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things     Should minister, as outward types and signs     Of the eternal beauty which fulfils     The one great purpose of creation, Love,     The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven!     .         .         .         .         .     For weeks the clouds had raked the hills     And vexed the vales with raining,     And all the woods were sad with mist,     And all the brooks complaining.     At last, a sudden night-storm tore     The mountain veils asunder,     And swept the valleys clean before     The bosom of the thunder.     Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang     Good morrow to the cotter;     And once again Chocoruas horn     Of shadow pierced the water.     Above his broad lake Ossipee,     Once more the sunshine wearing,     Stooped, tracing on that silver shield     His grim armorial bearing.     Clear drawn against the hard blue sky,     The peaks had winters keenness;     And, close on autumns frost, the vales     Had more than Junes fresh greenness.     Again the sodden forest floors     With golden lights were checkered,     Once more rejoicing leaves in wind     And sunshine danced and flickered.     It was as if the summers late     Atoning for its sadness     Had borrowed every seasons charm     To end its days in gladness.     I call to mind those banded vales     Of shadow and of shining,     Through which, my hostess at my side,     I drove in days declining.     We held our sideling way above     The rivers whitening shallows,     By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns     Swept through and through by swallows,     By maple orchards, belts of pine     And larches climbing darkly     The mountain slopes, and, over all,     The great peaks rising starkly.     You should have seen that long hill-range     With gaps of brightness riven,     How through each pass and hollow streamed     The purpling lights of heaven,     Rivers of gold-mist flowing down     From far celestial fountains,     The great sun flaming through the rifts     Beyond the wall of mountains.     We paused at last where home-bound cows     Brought down the pastures treasure,     And in the barn the rhythmic flails     Beat out a harvest measure.     We heard the night-hawks sullen plunge,     The crow his tree-mates calling:     The shadows lengthening down the slopes     About our feet were falling.     And through them smote the level sun     In broken lines of splendor,     Touched the gray rocks and made the green     Of the shorn grass more tender.     The maples bending oer the gate,     Their arch of leaves just tinted     With yellow warmth, the golden glow     Of coming autumn hinted.     Keen white between the farm-house showed,     And smiled on porch and trellis,     The fair democracy of flowers     That equals cot and palace.     And weaving garlands for her dog,     Twixt chidings and caresses,     A human flower of childhood shook     The sunshine from her tresses.     On either hand we saw the signs     Of fancy and of shrewdness,     Where taste had wound its arms of vines     Round thrifts uncomely rudeness.     The sun-brown farmer in his frock     Shook hands, and called to Mary     Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came,     White-aproned from her dairy.     Her air, her smile, her motions, told     Of womanly completeness;     A music as of household songs     Was in her voice of sweetness.     Not fair alone in curve and line,     But something more and better,     The secret charm eluding art,     Its spirit, not its letter;     An inborn grace that nothing lacked     Of culture or appliance,     The warmth of genial courtesy,     The calm of self-reliance.     Before her queenly womanhood     How dared our hostess utter     The paltry errand of her need     To buy her fresh-churned butter?     She led the way with housewife pride,     Her goodly store disclosing,     Full tenderly the golden balls     With practised hands disposing.     Then, while along the western hills     We watched the changeful glory     Of sunset, on our homeward way,     I heard her simple story.     The early crickets sang; the stream     Plashed through my friends narration:     Her rustic patois of the hills     Lost in my free-translation.     More wise, she said, than those who swarm     Our hills in middle summer,     She came, when Junes first roses blow,     To greet the early comer.     From school and ball and rout she came,     The citys fair, pale daughter,     To drink the wine of mountain air     Beside the Bearcamp Water.     Her step grew firmer on the hills     That watch our homesteads over;     On cheek and lip, from summer fields,     She caught the bloom of clover.     For health comes sparkling in the streams     From cool Chocorua stealing:     Theres iron in our Northern winds;     Our pines are trees of healing.     She sat beneath the broad-armed elms     That skirt the mowing-meadow,     And watched the gentle west-wind weave     The grass with shine and shadow.     Beside her, from the summer heat     To share her grateful screening,     With forehead bared, the farmer stood,     Upon his pitchfork leaning.     Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face     Had nothing mean or common,     Strong, manly, true, the tenderness     And pride beloved of woman.     She looked up, glowing with the health     The country air had brought her,     And, laughing, said: You lack a wife,     Your mother lacks a daughter.     To mend your frock and bake your bread     You do not need a lady:     Be sure among these brown old homes     Is some one waiting ready,     Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand     And cheerful heart for treasure,     Who never played with ivory keys,     Or danced the polkas measure.     He bent his black brows to a frown,     He set his white teeth tightly.     T is well, he said, for one like you     To choose for me so lightly.     You think, because my life is rude     I take no note of sweetness:     I tell you love has naught to do     With meetness or unmeetness.     Itself its best excuse, it asks     No leave of pride or fashion     When silken zone or homespun frock     It stirs with throbs of passion.     You think me deaf and blind: you bring     Your winning graces hither     As free as if from cradle-time     We two had played together.     You tempt me with your laughing eyes,     Your cheek of sundowns blushes,     A motion as of waving grain,     A music as of thrushes.     The plaything of your summer sport,     The spells you weave around me     You cannot at your will undo,     Nor leave me as you found me.     You go as lightly as you came,     Your life is well without me;     What care you that these hills will close     Like prison-walls about me?     No mood is mine to seek a wife,     Or daughter for my mother     Who loves you loses in that love     All power to love another!     I dare your pity or your scorn,     With pride your own exceeding;     I fling my heart into your lap     Without a word of pleading.     She looked up in his face of pain     So archly, yet so tender     And if I lend you mine, she said,     Will you forgive the lender?     Nor frock nor tan can hide the man;     And see you not, my farmer,     How weak and fond a woman waits     Behind this silken armor?     I love you: on that love alone,     And not my worth, presuming,     Will you not trust for summer fruit     The tree in May-day blooming?     Alone the hangbird overhead,     His hair-swung cradle straining,     Looked down to see loves miracle,     The giving that is gaining.     And so the farmer found a wife,     His mother found a daughter     There looks no happier home than hers     On pleasant Bearcamp Water.     Flowers spring to blossom where she walks     The careful ways of duty;     Our hard, stiff lines of life with her     Are flowing curves of beauty.     Our homes are cheerier for her sake,     Our door-yards brighter blooming,     And all about the social air     Is sweeter for her coming.     Unspoken homilies of peace     Her daily life is preaching;     The still refreshment of the dew     Is her unconscious teaching.     And never tenderer hand than hers     Unknits the brow of ailing;     Her garments to the sick mans ear     Have music in their trailing.     And when, in pleasant harvest moons,     The youthful huskers gather,     Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways     Defy the winter weather,     In sugar-camps, when south and warm     The winds of March are blowing,     And sweetly from its thawing veins     The maples blood is flowing,     In summer, where some lilied pond     Its virgin zone is baring,     Or where the ruddy autumn fire     Lights up the apple-paring,     The coarseness of a ruder time     Her finer mirth displaces,     A subtler sense of pleasure fills     Each rustic sport she graces.     Her presence lends its warmth and health     To all who come before it.     If woman lost us Eden, such     As she alone restore it.     For larger life and wiser aims     The farmer is her debtor;     Who holds to his anothers heart     Must needs be worse or better.     Through her his civic service shows     A purer-toned ambition;     No double consciousness divides     The man and politician.     In partys doubtful ways he trusts     Her instincts to determine;     At the loud polls, the thought of her     Recalls Christs Mountain Sermon.     He owns her logic of the heart,     And wisdom of unreason,     Supplying, while he doubts and weighs,     The needed word in season.     He sees with pride her richer thought,     Her fancys freer ranges;     And love thus deepened to respect     Is proof against all changes.     And if she walks at ease in ways     His feet are slow to travel,     And if she reads with cultured eyes     What his may scarce unravel,     Still clearer, for her keener sight     Of beauty and of wonder,     He learns the meaning of the hills     He dwelt from childhood under.     And higher, warmed with summer lights,     Or winter-crowned and hoary,     The ridged horizon lifts for him     Its inner veils of glory.     He has his own free, bookless lore,     The lessons nature taught him,     The wisdom which the woods and hills     And toiling men have brought him:     The steady force of will whereby     Her flexile grace seems sweeter;     The sturdy counterpoise which makes     Her womans life completer.     A latent fire of soul which lacks     No breath of love to fan it;     And wit, that, like his native brooks,     Plays over solid granite.     How dwarfed against his manliness     She sees the poor pretension,     The wants, the aims, the follies, born     Of fashion and convention.     How life behind its accidents     Stands strong and self-sustaining,     The human fact transcending all     The losing and the gaining.     And so in grateful interchange     Of teacher and of hearer,     Their lives their true distinctness keep     While daily drawing nearer.     And if the husband or the wife     In homes strong light discovers     Such slight defaults as failed to meet     The blinded eyes of lovers,     Why need we care to ask? who dreams     Without their thorns of roses,     Or wonders that the truest steel     The readiest spark discloses?     For still in mutual sufferance lies     The secret of true living;     Love scarce is love that never knows     The sweetness of forgiving.     We send the Squire to General Court,     He takes his young wife thither;     No prouder man election day     Rides through the sweet June weather.     He sees with eyes of manly trust     All hearts to her inclining;     Not less for him his household light     That others share its shining.     Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew     Before me, warmer tinted     And outlined with a tenderer grace,     The picture that she hinted.     The sunset smouldered as we drove     Beneath the deep hill-shadows.     Below us wreaths of white fog walked     Like ghosts the haunted meadows.     Sounding the summer night, the stars     Dropped down their golden plummets;     The pale arc of the Northern lights     Rose oer the mountain summits,     Until, at last, beneath its bridge,     We heard the Bearcamp flowing,     And saw across the mapled lawn     The welcome home lights glowing;     And, musing on the tale I heard,     T were well, thought I, if often     To rugged farm-life came the gift     To harmonize and soften;     If more and more we found the troth     Of fact and fancy plighted,     And cultures charm and labors strength     In rural homes united,     The simple life, the homely hearth,     With beautys sphere surrounding,     And blessing toil where toil abounds     With graces more abounding.