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 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE LADY ARBELLA.
The good ship Arbella is leading the fleet
Away to the westward, through rain-storm and sleet;
The white cliffs of England have dropped out of sight:
As birds from the warmth of their nest taking flight
Into wider horizons, each fluttering sail
Follows fast where the Mayflower fled on the gale
With her resolute Pilgrims, ten winters before;
And the fire of their faith lights the sea and the shore.
Away to the westward, through rain-storm and sleet;
The white cliffs of England have dropped out of sight:
As birds from the warmth of their nest taking flight
Into wider horizons, each fluttering sail
Follows fast where the Mayflower fled on the gale
With her resolute Pilgrims, ten winters before;
And the fire of their faith lights the sea and the shore.
There are yeomen and statesmen,—the learnèd and rude
One brotherhood; jealousy cannot intrude
Between heart and heart; with one purpose they go,—
To knit life to life, a new nation, and grow
In the strength of the Lord. There are maidens discreet,
And saintliest matrons; but none is so sweet
As the delicate blush-rose from Lincoln's old hall,
The Lady Arbella, the flower of them all.
One brotherhood; jealousy cannot intrude
Between heart and heart; with one purpose they go,—
To knit life to life, a new nation, and grow
In the strength of the Lord. There are maidens discreet,
And saintliest matrons; but none is so sweet
As the delicate blush-rose from Lincoln's old hall,
The Lady Arbella, the flower of them all.
Belovèd and loving, one stands at her side,
A bridegroom well matched with so lovely a bride;
Wise Winthrop is balancing care in his mind
For the colony's weal, for the wife left behind;
And godly and tolerant Phillips is there,
To comfort his shipmates with blessing and prayer:
One and all, they have taken their lives in their hand
To be scattered as seed in a wilderness land.
A bridegroom well matched with so lovely a bride;
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For the colony's weal, for the wife left behind;
And godly and tolerant Phillips is there,
To comfort his shipmates with blessing and prayer:
One and all, they have taken their lives in their hand
To be scattered as seed in a wilderness land.
There is hope in their eyes, though it gleams through regret;
They go not as those who can lightly forget
The Church, their dear mother, the land of their birth,
In the glamour that flushes an unexplored earth,
A limitless continent, fringing the rim
Of the silent sea-vastness with promises dim;
And their love, reaching back from the voyage begun,
Links Old and New England forever as one.
They go not as those who can lightly forget
The Church, their dear mother, the land of their birth,
In the glamour that flushes an unexplored earth,
A limitless continent, fringing the rim
Of the silent sea-vastness with promises dim;
And their love, reaching back from the voyage begun,
Links Old and New England forever as one.
They drift through blank midnight, they toss in the mist,
Blown hither and thither as wild winds may list;
Moons wane, ere a glimpse of the land that they seek
Breaks the chaos of billow and fog: though the cheek
Of Arbella grows pale, with a clear, kindling eye,
She says, “It is well that we go, though we die;”
And the heart of the bridegroom beats high at her side,
In response to the undismayed heart of his bride.
Blown hither and thither as wild winds may list;
Moons wane, ere a glimpse of the land that they seek
Breaks the chaos of billow and fog: though the cheek
Of Arbella grows pale, with a clear, kindling eye,
She says, “It is well that we go, though we die;”
And the heart of the bridegroom beats high at her side,
In response to the undismayed heart of his bride.
And still, side by side, they keep watch on the deck,
Till the faint shore approaches—an outline—a speck
That wavers and sinks, and arises again,
Undefined, on the outermost verge of the main.
And lo! on a golden June morning, a smell
As of blossoming gardens, borne over the swell
Of the weltering brine; cliff and headland that dip
Their green robes in the sea, leaning out to the ship!
Till the faint shore approaches—an outline—a speck
That wavers and sinks, and arises again,
Undefined, on the outermost verge of the main.
And lo! on a golden June morning, a smell
As of blossoming gardens, borne over the swell
Of the weltering brine; cliff and headland that dip
Their green robes in the sea, leaning out to the ship!
And shining above them, afar on the sky,
Where the coast-line trends inland, the snow-summits high,
A glimmer of crystal! The lady's rapt gaze
Lingers long on that wonder of filmy white haze,
As a vision of mountains celestial, that rise
On the soul of the dying, who nears Paradise.
Did she know, could she dream, that to her it was given
But to touch at this new world, and pass on to heaven?
Where the coast-line trends inland, the snow-summits high,
A glimmer of crystal! The lady's rapt gaze
Lingers long on that wonder of filmy white haze,
As a vision of mountains celestial, that rise
On the soul of the dying, who nears Paradise.
Did she know, could she dream, that to her it was given
But to touch at this new world, and pass on to heaven?
There looms Agamenticus, beckons Cape Ann;
There a smoke-wreath reveals Masconomo's red clan,
Or the camp-fire of settlers; and here a canoe,
Here a shallop, steers out to the storm-beaten crew.
The low islands part, as an opening door,
And they glide in, and anchor in sight of the shore,
Where the wild roses' fragrance, the strawberries' scent,
With the music of song-bird and billow is blent.
There a smoke-wreath reveals Masconomo's red clan,
Or the camp-fire of settlers; and here a canoe,
Here a shallop, steers out to the storm-beaten crew.
The low islands part, as an opening door,
And they glide in, and anchor in sight of the shore,
Where the wild roses' fragrance, the strawberries' scent,
With the music of song-bird and billow is blent.
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Did the Lady Arbella's light foot touch the beach?
Did the sweet-brier sway to her laugh and her speech?
Waves wash away foot-prints; winds sweep from the air
Glad echoes, fresh odors;—her memory is there!
And the wild rose is sweeter on Bass-River-Side
For breathing where once breathed the sweet English bride;
And the moan of the surges a pathos has caught
From her presence there, brief as the flight of a thought.
Did the sweet-brier sway to her laugh and her speech?
Waves wash away foot-prints; winds sweep from the air
Glad echoes, fresh odors;—her memory is there!
And the wild rose is sweeter on Bass-River-Side
For breathing where once breathed the sweet English bride;
And the moan of the surges a pathos has caught
From her presence there, brief as the flight of a thought.
Grave Endicott welcomes his beautiful guest:
At last in the wilderness shall she find rest,
And dream of the cities to rise at her feet
In a nation where mercy and righteousness meet?
Dear Lady Arbella! so brave and so meek!
Too fragile a flower for this atmosphere bleak,
When the rose shed its petals on Bass-River-Side,
The blush-rose of Lincoln had faded and died.
At last in the wilderness shall she find rest,
And dream of the cities to rise at her feet
In a nation where mercy and righteousness meet?
Dear Lady Arbella! so brave and so meek!
Too fragile a flower for this atmosphere bleak,
When the rose shed its petals on Bass-River-Side,
The blush-rose of Lincoln had faded and died.
But a soul cannot fail of its gracious intent;
We are known, and we live, through the good that we meant.
The seed will spring up that was watered with tears;
If an angel looked on, through those first dreary years
Of the colony's childhood, and bore up its prayer,
The spirit of Lady Arbella was there;
And to whatever Eden her footsteps have flown,
New England still claims her—forever our own!
We are known, and we live, through the good that we meant.
The seed will spring up that was watered with tears;
If an angel looked on, through those first dreary years
Of the colony's childhood, and bore up its prayer,
The spirit of Lady Arbella was there;
And to whatever Eden her footsteps have flown,
New England still claims her—forever our own!
For the lady arose to her womanhood then,
When gentry and yeomanry simply were men
In communion of hardship. All honor be theirs
Whose names on her forehead the Commonwealth wears,
Who planted the roots of our freedom! Nor yet
The blossoms that died in transplanting forget,—
The true-hearted women who perished beside
The Lady Arbella, the fair English bride!
When gentry and yeomanry simply were men
In communion of hardship. All honor be theirs
Whose names on her forehead the Commonwealth wears,
Who planted the roots of our freedom! Nor yet
The blossoms that died in transplanting forget,—
The true-hearted women who perished beside
The Lady Arbella, the fair English bride!
Written for the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the landing of Governor Winthrop at Salem, Massachusetts, June 22d (or O. S. June 12th), 1630.
The Arbella was anchored from Saturday to Monday, inside the islands, just off the shore of Beverly, then called Bass-River-Side; and many of the people went ashore and gathered wild strawberries,—as is recorded by Winthrop in his Journal.
The story of Lady Arbella, daughter of the Earl of Lincoln, and wife of Mr. Isaac Johnson,— the narrative of the long and stormy voyage of Winthrop's fleet to our shores, and her death, followed by that of her husband, within three months after their arrival, are familiar to the readers of our earliest colonial history.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |