 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
MY MARINER.
Oh, he goes away, singing,
Singing over the sea!
Oh, he comes again, bringing
Joy and himself to me!
Down through the rosemary hollow
And up the wet beach I ran,
My heart in a flutter to follow
The flight of my sailor man.
Singing over the sea!
Oh, he comes again, bringing
Joy and himself to me!
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And up the wet beach I ran,
My heart in a flutter to follow
The flight of my sailor man.
Fie on a husband sitting
Still, in the house at home!
Give me a mariner flitting
And flashing over the foam!
Give me a voice resounding
The songs of the breezy main!
Give me a free heart bounding
Evermore hither again!
Still, in the house at home!
Give me a mariner flitting
And flashing over the foam!
Give me a voice resounding
The songs of the breezy main!
Give me a free heart bounding
Evermore hither again!
Coming is better than going;
But never was queen so grand
As I, while I watch him blowing
Away from the lazy land.
I have wedded an ocean-rover,
And with him I own the sea;
Yet over the waves, come over,
And anchor, my lad, by me!
But never was queen so grand
As I, while I watch him blowing
Away from the lazy land.
I have wedded an ocean-rover,
And with him I own the sea;
Yet over the waves, come over,
And anchor, my lad, by me!
Hark to his billowy laughter,
Blithe on the homeward tide!
Hark to it, heart! up and after—
Off to the harbor-side—
Down through the rosemary hollow,
And over the sand-hills, light
And swift as a sea-bird, follow!
And ho! for a sail in sight!
Blithe on the homeward tide!
Hark to it, heart! up and after—
Off to the harbor-side—
Down through the rosemary hollow,
And over the sand-hills, light
And swift as a sea-bird, follow!
And ho! for a sail in sight!
When the coast-country, from Bass River east
To Agawam, was known as Cape-Ann-Side,
Up from the ferry ran one winding road
Through pleasant Beverly, past Wenham Lake,
Losing itself in the Chebacco woods
Among a hidden chain of gem-like ponds:
A cow-path, so the ancient gossips say,
Branching upon the left through Ryal-Side,
To Salem Village; and upon the right,
Skirting the seashore down through Jeffrey's Creek
And the magnolia-swamp, to Sandy Bay,
And Pigeon Cove, and sheltered Annisquam.
Thanks to the zig-zag pioneering kine
For picturesque roads, impossible to spoil
By leveling or by straightening! Twoscore years
Of memory, and we have them back again,
Lovely with Nature's care and man's neglect;
Lanes, and yet highways, bordered with all growths
Of the rich glens and the primeval woods.
To Agawam, was known as Cape-Ann-Side,
Up from the ferry ran one winding road
Through pleasant Beverly, past Wenham Lake,
Losing itself in the Chebacco woods
Among a hidden chain of gem-like ponds:
A cow-path, so the ancient gossips say,
Branching upon the left through Ryal-Side,
To Salem Village; and upon the right,
Skirting the seashore down through Jeffrey's Creek
And the magnolia-swamp, to Sandy Bay,
And Pigeon Cove, and sheltered Annisquam.
Thanks to the zig-zag pioneering kine
For picturesque roads, impossible to spoil
By leveling or by straightening! Twoscore years
Of memory, and we have them back again,
Lovely with Nature's care and man's neglect;
Lanes, and yet highways, bordered with all growths
Of the rich glens and the primeval woods.
185
The shyest bird trilled frankly his best song
In the low boughs above you; from cool nooks
The graceful sweet-brier leaned, to show the way,
When the June twilight deepened. Even now
You slip into these rose-roads unaware,
Just out of reach of landscape-gardeners,
And farmers beauty-blind, whose synonym
For poison-oak and rose is—underbrush!
In the low boughs above you; from cool nooks
The graceful sweet-brier leaned, to show the way,
When the June twilight deepened. Even now
You slip into these rose-roads unaware,
Just out of reach of landscape-gardeners,
And farmers beauty-blind, whose synonym
For poison-oak and rose is—underbrush!
Some flavor of the natural wildness left
Compensates you for groves too clean and trim,
The ubiquitous French roof, the shaven lawns,
The modern villas posing on the verge
Of roadside-precipices, consciously,
In the Rhine-castle manner,—everything
That hints of Nature closely taken in hand
By patronizing Wealth, and stroked and smoothed
Into suburban elegance. Weather-worn
And homely were the ancient farmhouses,
But well they harmonized with the old ways,
Old roads, old woods, old faces, and old friends,
And all the sweet old mystery we call home.
Compensates you for groves too clean and trim,
The ubiquitous French roof, the shaven lawns,
The modern villas posing on the verge
Of roadside-precipices, consciously,
In the Rhine-castle manner,—everything
That hints of Nature closely taken in hand
By patronizing Wealth, and stroked and smoothed
Into suburban elegance. Weather-worn
And homely were the ancient farmhouses,
But well they harmonized with the old ways,
Old roads, old woods, old faces, and old friends,
And all the sweet old mystery we call home.
Alas! simplicity and homeliness
Are studied now, among the finer arts,
And the old words lose their meaning!
Still the heart
Of childhood remains fresh, and poverty
And hardship shut its unspoiled fragrance in
To their safe coffers. Crowds of rosy cheeks,
And eyes that mock the morning, seaward turned,
Where the pink sails at sunset faded out
Far, far northeast, when, outward-bound, the fleet
Left home and love behind, and steered away
For the Grand Banks or Georges', grow and bloom
Along the wayside, climbing the stone walls,
Beckoning and smiling as wild roses do,
Looking for those who never will return.
The fisher's child scarce knows if sea or shore
Is most his home; and yet must Georges' name—
The dragon-shoal that counts his wrecks by scores—
Bring dreams of nightmare-terror to the babe
Who hears it only through a mother's moan.
Are studied now, among the finer arts,
And the old words lose their meaning!
Still the heart
Of childhood remains fresh, and poverty
And hardship shut its unspoiled fragrance in
To their safe coffers. Crowds of rosy cheeks,
And eyes that mock the morning, seaward turned,
Where the pink sails at sunset faded out
Far, far northeast, when, outward-bound, the fleet
Left home and love behind, and steered away
For the Grand Banks or Georges', grow and bloom
Along the wayside, climbing the stone walls,
Beckoning and smiling as wild roses do,
Looking for those who never will return.
The fisher's child scarce knows if sea or shore
Is most his home; and yet must Georges' name—
The dragon-shoal that counts his wrecks by scores—
Bring dreams of nightmare-terror to the babe
Who hears it only through a mother's moan.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |