1 When I was fourteen years old my first schoolmaster, Joshua Coffin, the able, eccentric historian of Newbury, brought with him to our house a volume of Burns's poems, from which he read, greatly to my delight. I begged him to leave the book with me, and set myself at once to the task of mastering the glossary of the Scottish dialect at its close. This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures. (WHITTIER, in his Autobiographical Letter; Carpenter's Whittier, pp. 298-299.) One day we had a call from a 'pawky auld carle' of a wandering Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider he gave us Bonny Doon,' 'Highland Mary' and 'Auld Lang Syne.' He had a rich, full voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have since listened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster, than whom the Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter; but the skilful performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's singing in the old farmhouse kitchen. (WHITTIER, Yankee Gypsies,' in his Prose Works, vol. i, pp. 336-337; also quoted in Carpenter's Whittier, p. 30.) Sweet day, sweet songs! The golden It died upon the and ear, hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-seen Nature beamed, No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Than all the dreams that held my youth That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The tender idyls of the heart Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying; 50 60 eye No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget Lament who will the ribald line 70 80 90 But think, while falls that shade be tween The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render; The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, And Milton's starry splendor! But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer ? The joys and griefs that plume the wings Who sweetened toil like him, or paid Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even, That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. To love a tribute dearer? Through all his tuneful art, how strong The human feeling gushes! The very nioonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes! 100 110 And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 1 The poem had no real foundation in fact, though a hint of it may have been found in recalling an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maine seaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stopped to rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple-tree, and refresh him with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wall across the road. A very beautiful young girl in scantest summer attire was at work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her we noticed that she strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing as she did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck. (WHITTIER.) And, gazing down with timid grace, Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, A manly form at her side she saw, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 100 THE BAREFOOT BOY BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Let the million-dollared ride! 10 |