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 friend's 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 June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer.

"From school and ball and rout she

came,

The city's 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: There's 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.

403

"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 polka's 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.

404

"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 man's ear
Have music in their trailing.

"For larger life and wiser aims
The farmer is her debtor;
Who holds to his another's 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 party's doubtful ways he trusts
Her instincts to determine;
At the loud polls, the thought of her

Recalls Christ's 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 fancy's 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,

THE CLEAR VISION.

I DID but dream. I never knew
What charms our sternest season

wore.

Was never yet the sky so blue,

Was never earth so white before.
Till now I never saw the glow
Of sunset on yon hills of snow,

And never learned the bough's designs
Of beauty in its leafless lines.

Did ever such a morning break

As that my eastern windows see? Did ever such a moonlight take Weird photographs of shrub and

tree?

Rang ever bells so wild and fleet
The music of the winter street?
Was ever yet a sound by half
So merry as yon school-boy's laugh?

O Earth! with gladness overfraught,
No added charm thy face hath found;
Within my heart the change is wrought,

My footsteps make enchanted ground. From couch of pain and curtained room Forth to thy light and air I come, To find in all that meets my eyes The freshness of a glad surprise.

Fair seem these winter days, and soon Shall blow the warm west winds of spring

To set the unbound rills in tune,

And hither urge the bluebird's wing. The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods

Grow misty green with leafing buds,
And violets and wind-flowers sway
Against the throbbing heart of May.

Break forth, my lips, in praise, and own
The wiser love severely kind;
Since, richer for its chastening grown,
I see, whereas I once was blind.
The world, O Father! hath not wronged
With loss the life by thee prolonged;

moon

From west to east sailed slow!

Jarl Thorkell of Thevera

At Yule-time made his vow;
On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone
He slew to Frey his cow.

To bounteous Frey he slew her;
To Skuld, the younger Norn,
Who watches over birth and death,
He gave her calf unborn.
And his little gold-haired daughter
Took up the sprinkling-rod,
And smeared with blood the temple
And the wide lips of the god.

Hoarse below, the winter water
Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er;
Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves,
Rose and fell along the shore.

"So be it!" cried the young men, "There needs nor doubt nor parle"; But, knitting hard his red brows, In silence stood the Jarl.

A sound of woman's weeping

At the temple door was heard, But the old men bowed their white heads,

And answered not a word.

Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla,
A Vaia young and fair,
Sang softly, stirring with her breath
The veil of her loose hair.

She sang: "The winds from Alfheim
Bring never sound of strife;
The gifts for Frey the meetest
Are not of death, but life.

"He loves the grass-green meadows,
The grazing kine's sweet breath;
He loathes your bloody Horg-stones,
Your gifts that smell of death.

"No wrong by wrong is righted,

No pain is cured by pain;

407

The blood that smokes from Doom

rings

Falls back in redder rain.

"The gods are what you make them,
As earth shall Asgard prove;
And hate will come of hating,
And love will come of love.

"Make dole of skyr and black bread
That old and young may live;
And look to Frey for favor
When first like Frey you give.

"Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows
The summer dawn begins;
The tun shall have its harvest,
The fiord its glancing fins."

Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell:
By Gimli and by Hel,

66

O Vala of Thingvalla,

Thou singest wise and well!

"Too dear the Esir's favors

Bought with our children's lives; Better die than shame in living

Our mothers and our wives.

"The full shall give his portion

To him who hath most need;
Of curdled skyr and black bread,
Be daily dole decreed."

He broke from off his neck-chain
Three links of beaten gold;
And each man, at his bidding,
Brought gifts for young and old.
Then mothers nursed their children,
And daughters fed their sires,
And Health sat down with Plenty
Before the next Yule fires.

The Horg-stones stand in Rykdal;

The Doom-ring still remains; But the snows of a thousand winters Have washed away the stains. Christ ruleth now; the Æsir

Have found their twilight dim; And, wiser than she dreamed, of old The Vala sang of Him!