The Maids Of Attitash

In sky and wave the white clouds swam,     And the blue hills of Nottingham     Through gaps of leafy green     Across the lake were seen,     When, in the shadow of the ash     That dreams its dream in Attitash,     In the warm summer weather,     Two maidens sat together.     They sat and watched in idle mood     The gleam and shade of lake and wood;     The beach the keen light smote,     The white sail of a boat;     Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,     In sweetness, not in music, dying;     Hardback, and virgin's-bower,     And white-spiked clethra-flower.     With careless ears they heard the plash     And breezy wash of Attitash,     The wood-bird's plaintive cry,     The locust's sharp reply.     And teased the while, with playful band,     The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,     Whose uncouth frolic spilled     Their baskets berry-filled.     Then one, the beauty of whose eyes     Was evermore a great surprise,     Tossed back her queenly head,     And, lightly laughing, said:     "No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold     That is not lined with yellow gold;     I tread no cottage-floor;     I own no lover poor.     "My love must come on silken wings,     With bridal lights of diamond rings,     Not foul with kitchen smirch,     With tallow-dip for torch."     The other, on whose modest head     Was lesser dower of beauty shed,     With look for home-hearths meet,     And voice exceeding sweet,     Answered, "We will not rivals be;     Take thou the gold, leave love to me;     Mine be the cottage small,     And thine the rich man's hall.     "I know, indeed, that wealth is good;     But lowly roof and simple food,     With love that hath no doubt,     Are more than gold without."     Hard by a farmer hale and young     His cradle in the rye-field swung,     Tracking the yellow plain     With windrows of ripe grain.     And still, whene'er he paused to whet     His scythe, the sidelong glance he met     Of large dark eyes, where strove     False pride and secret love.     Be strong, young mower of the-grain;     That love shall overmatch disdain,     Its instincts soon or late     The heart shall vindicate.     In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod,     Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod     The margin of the pond,     Watching the group beyond.     The supreme hours unnoted come;     Unfelt the turning tides of doom;     And so the maids laughed on,     Nor dreamed what Fate had done,     Nor knew the step was Destiny's     That rustled in the birchen trees,     As, with their lives forecast,     Fisher and mower passed.     Erelong by lake and rivulet side     The summer roses paled and died,     And Autumn's fingers shed     The maple's leaves of red.     Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,     Alone, but for the diving loon,     The partridge in the brake,     The black duck on the lake,     Beneath the shadow of the ash     Sat man and maid by Attitash;     And earth and air made room     For human hearts to bloom.     Soft spread the carpets of the sod,     And scarlet-oak and golden-rod     With blushes and with smiles     Lit up the forest aisles.     The mellow light the lake aslant,     The pebbled margin's ripple-chant     Attempered and low-toned,     The tender mystery owned.     And through the dream the lovers dreamed     Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed;     The sunshine seemed to bless,     The air was a caress.     Not she who lightly laughed is there,     With scornful toss of midnight hair,     Her dark, disdainful eyes,     And proud lip worldly-wise.     Her haughty vow is still unsaid,     But all she dreamed and coveted     Wears, half to her surprise,     The youthful farmer's guise!     With more than all her old-time pride     She walks the rye-field at his side,     Careless of cot or hall,     Since love transfigures all.     Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground     Of life is gained; her hands have found     The talisman of old     That changes all to gold.     While she who could for love dispense     With all its glittering accidents,     And trust her heart alone,     Finds love and gold her own.     What wealth can buy or art can build     Awaits her; but her cup is filled     Even now unto the brim;     Her world is love and him!      .        .        .        .        .     The while he heard, the Book-man drew     A length of make-believing face,     With smothered mischief laughing through     "Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place,     And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep     On Yankee hills immortal sheep,     While love-lorn swains and maids the seas beyond     Hold dreamy tryst around your huckleberry-pond."     The Traveller laughed: "Sir Galahad     Singing of love the Trouvere's lay!     How should he know the blindfold lad     From one of Vulcan's forge-boys?" "Nay,     He better sees who stands outside     Than they who in procession ride,"     The Reader answered: "selectmen and squire     Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.     "Here is a wild tale of the North,     Our travelled friend will own as one     Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth     And lips of Christian Andersen.     They tell it in the valleys green     Of the fair island he has seen,     Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore,     Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore.