Amy Wentworth - To William Bradford

As they who watch by sick-beds find relief     Unwittingly from the great stress of grief     And anxious care, in fantasies outwrought     From the hearths embers flickering low, or caught     From whispering wind, or tread of passing feet,     Or vagrant memory calling up some sweet     Snatch of old song or romance, whence or why     They scarcely know or ask, so, thou and I,     Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong     In the endurance which outwearies Wrong,     With meek persistence baffling brutal force,     And trusting God against the universe,     We, doomed to watch a strife we may not share     With other weapons than the patriots prayer,     Yet owning, with full hearts and moistened eyes,     The awful beauty of self-sacrifice,     And wrung by keenest sympathy for all     Who give their loved ones for the living wall     Twixt law and treason, in this evil day     May haply find, through automatic play     Of pen and pencil, solace to our pain,     And hearten others with the strength we gain.     I know it has been said our times require     No play of art, nor dalliance with the lyre,     No weak essay with Fancys chloroform     To calm the hot, mad pulses of the storm,     But the stern war-blast rather, such as sets     The battles teeth of serried bayonets,     And pictures grim as Vernets. Yet with these     Some softer tints may blend, and milder keys     Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us keep sweet,     If so we may, our hearts, even while we eat     The bitter harvest of our own device     And half a centurys moral cowardice.     As Nrnberg sang while Wittenberg defied,     And Kranach painted by his Luthers side,     And through the war-march of the Puritan     The silver stream of Marvells music ran,     So let the household melodies be sung,     The pleasant pictures on the wall be hung     So let us hold against the hosts of night     And slavery all our vantage-ground of light.     Let Treason boast its savagery, and shake     From its flag-folds its symbol rattlesnake,     Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in tan,     And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones of man,     And make the tale of Fijian banquets dull     By drinking whiskey from a loyal skull,     But let us guard, till this sad war shall cease,     (God grant it soon!) the graceful arts of peace     No foes are conquered who the victors teach     Their vandal manners and barbaric speech.     And while, with hearts of thankfulness, we bear     Of the great common burden our full share,     Let none upbraid us that the waves entice     Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint device,     Rhythmic, and sweet, beguiles my pen away     From the sharp strifes and sorrows of to-day.     Thus, while the east-wind keen from Labrador     Sings it the leafless elms, and from the shore     Of the great sea comes the monotonous roar     Of the long-breaking surf, and all the sky     Is gray with cloud, home-bound and dull, I try     To time a simple legend to the sounds     Of winds in the woods, and waves on pebbled bounds,     A song for oars to chime with, such as might     Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at night     Look from their hemlock camps, by quiet cove     Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves they love.     (So hast thou looked, when level sunset lay     On the calm bosom of some Eastern bay,     And all the spray-moist rocks and waves that rolled     Up the white sand-slopes flashed with ruddy gold.)     Something it has a flavor of the sea,     And the seas freedom, which reminds of thee.     Its faded picture, dimly smiling down     From the blurred fresco of the ancient town,     I have not touched with warmer tints in vain,     If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one thought from pain.     .         .         .         .         .     Her fingers shame the ivory keys     They dance so light along;     The bloom upon her parted lips     Is sweeter than the song.     O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles!     Her thoughts are not of thee;     She better loves the salted wind,     The voices of the sea.     Her heart is like an outbound ship     That at its anchor swings;     The murmur of the stranded shell     Is in the song she sings.     She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise,     But dreams the while of one     Who watches from his sea-blown deck     The icebergs in the sun.     She questions all the winds that blow,     And every fog-wreath dim,     And bids the sea-birds flying north     Bear messages to him.     She speeds them with the thanks of men     He perilled life to save,     And grateful prayers like holy oil     To smooth for him the wave.     Brown Viking of the fishing-smack!     Fair toast of all the town!     The skippers jerkin ill beseems     The ladys silken gown!     But neer shall Amy Wentworth wear     For him the blush of shame     Who dares to set his manly gifts     Against her ancient name.     The stream is brightest at its spring,     And blood is not like wine;     Nor honored less than he who heirs     Is he who founds a line.     Full lightly shall the prize be won,     If love be Fortunes spur;     And never maiden stoops to him     Who lifts himself to her.     Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street,     With stately stairways worn     By feet of old Colonial knights     And ladies gentle-born.     Still green about its ample porch     The English ivy twines,     Trained back to show in English oak     The heralds carven signs.     And on her, from the wainscot old,     Ancestral faces frown,     And this has worn the soldiers sword,     And that the judges gown.     But, strong of will and proud as they,     She walks the gallery floor     As if she trod her sailors deck     By stormy Labrador.     The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side,     And green are Elliots bowers;     Her garden is the pebbled beach,     The mosses are her flowers.     She looks across the harbor-bar     To see the white gulls fly;     His greeting from the Northern sea     Is in their clanging cry.     She hums a song, and dreams that he,     As in its romance old,     Shall homeward ride with silken sails     And masts of beaten gold!     Oh, rank is good, and gold is fair,     And high and low mate ill;     But love has never known a law     Beyond its own sweet will!