 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
194
ON THE MISERY.
Looking just off to the eastward
From the beautiful Beverly shore,
You will see two treeless islands
Stretching their blank before
The harbor-lights and the sea-waste gray,
A mile or more from the beach away.
From the beautiful Beverly shore,
You will see two treeless islands
Stretching their blank before
The harbor-lights and the sea-waste gray,
A mile or more from the beach away.
These are the Misery Islands:
The name has been handed down
From the twilight of lost tradition;
The oldest man in the town
Has never heard his grandfather say
Why the Misery was the Misery.
The name has been handed down
From the twilight of lost tradition;
The oldest man in the town
Has never heard his grandfather say
Why the Misery was the Misery.
They were clad in sombre forests
When the earliest settler came;
And the old-time hunter found them
A covert for noble game:
Every fish that swam, every fowl that flew,
The lonely nooks of the Misery knew.
When the earliest settler came;
And the old-time hunter found them
A covert for noble game:
Every fish that swam, every fowl that flew,
The lonely nooks of the Misery knew.
They had cut off the trees for firewood
Long ere my grandsire's birth;
Still the wild duck came to their shelter,
And the loon, with his mocking mirth,
Made eddying inlet and pool resound,
When the sea was blue as the skies around.
Long ere my grandsire's birth;
Still the wild duck came to their shelter,
And the loon, with his mocking mirth,
Made eddying inlet and pool resound,
When the sea was blue as the skies around.
The little ancestral cottage,
Shut in by a hillside wood,
With its windows opening seaward,
In a bower of orchards stood;
Over the marshes, away from the road,
Its ample hearth-fire at evening glowed.
Shut in by a hillside wood,
With its windows opening seaward,
In a bower of orchards stood;
Over the marshes, away from the road,
Its ample hearth-fire at evening glowed.
A pastoral, homelike picture;
Rocks, grainfields, and summer flowers:
But when the wind howled in the chimney,
And autumn shortened the hours,
To be safe underneath its friendly roof
Was pleasanter far than straying aloof.
Rocks, grainfields, and summer flowers:
But when the wind howled in the chimney,
And autumn shortened the hours,
To be safe underneath its friendly roof
Was pleasanter far than straying aloof.
My grandsire arose, sea-restless;
The red dawn was threatening rain:
“Don't go to the Misery, husband!”
The kind lips murmured in vain:
He took his fowling-piece from the beam,
And rowed away by the lurid gleam.
The red dawn was threatening rain:
“Don't go to the Misery, husband!”
The kind lips murmured in vain:
He took his fowling-piece from the beam,
And rowed away by the lurid gleam.
195
My grandmother put by her spinning;
The day had been eerie and chill;
The hoarse wind rattled the windows,
And bent the great pines on the hill:
She laid her children in bed with a prayer,
And sat by the firelight, full of care.
The day had been eerie and chill;
The hoarse wind rattled the windows,
And bent the great pines on the hill:
She laid her children in bed with a prayer,
And sat by the firelight, full of care.
“What keeps him away after sunset?
So bleak on the Misery!
And the night shutting in so stormy!
I wish he were here!” thought she.
When a wilder gust down the chimney blew,
And she heard the voice that so well she knew.
So bleak on the Misery!
And the night shutting in so stormy!
I wish he were here!” thought she.
When a wilder gust down the chimney blew,
And she heard the voice that so well she knew.
Louder than shriek of the tempest,
Clearer than ocean's rote,
She heard the cry of her husband:
“Wife! I have lost the boat!”
Nor thought for a moment it could not be,
With the Misery out a mile in the sea.
Clearer than ocean's rote,
She heard the cry of her husband:
“Wife! I have lost the boat!”
Nor thought for a moment it could not be,
With the Misery out a mile in the sea.
She latched the door on her children,
She wrapped her head from the blast,
And into the rain-drenched forest
With the speed of a wild deer passed,
Through the starless lane, and the long, dark road
That led where her nearest kinsmen abode.
She wrapped her head from the blast,
And into the rain-drenched forest
With the speed of a wild deer passed,
Through the starless lane, and the long, dark road
That led where her nearest kinsmen abode.
They turned to her, dazed and startled:
Had the storm burst in at the door?
What was it—a half-drowned woman,
Or a ghost, so white on the floor?
“My husband's adrift on the Misery;
Go you and fetch him away!” said she.
Had the storm burst in at the door?
What was it—a half-drowned woman,
Or a ghost, so white on the floor?
“My husband's adrift on the Misery;
Go you and fetch him away!” said she.
“He went with his gun and his dory,
And the boat has been washed away;
He is there, without food or a shelter!”
“And how can you know it?” ask they.
“He called, and I heard him.”—“A woman's whim!
Who faces this furious gale for him?”
And the boat has been washed away;
He is there, without food or a shelter!”
“And how can you know it?” ask they.
“He called, and I heard him.”—“A woman's whim!
Who faces this furious gale for him?”
“Either I, or you, his brethren:
Go you, or myself will go!
The Hand that controls the tempest
Steers safely, and I can row!”
“Nay, stay you here by the fireside warm!
You never could weather so wild a storm.”
Go you, or myself will go!
The Hand that controls the tempest
Steers safely, and I can row!”
“Nay, stay you here by the fireside warm!
You never could weather so wild a storm.”
They steer through the seething darkness;
The voyage is quickly made;
They have found him, watching and waiting,
As one who expected aid:
And he only said, as the boat drew near,
“I knew that God or my wife would hear.”
The voyage is quickly made;
They have found him, watching and waiting,
As one who expected aid:
196
“I knew that God or my wife would hear.”
A silent man was my grandsire;
But, half-way home through the wood,
He said, with a doubt born of safety,
“Wife, surely you never could,
In a gale so fearful, have heard my call,
Except by some witchcraft, after all!
But, half-way home through the wood,
He said, with a doubt born of safety,
“Wife, surely you never could,
In a gale so fearful, have heard my call,
Except by some witchcraft, after all!
“For it died on the wind like a whisper:
I scarcely could draw my breath;
And my voice was weak as a baby's,
While the sleet fell, could as death!”
“Yes, witchcraft, husband! but such alone
As wives who are faithful have always known.”
I scarcely could draw my breath;
And my voice was weak as a baby's,
While the sleet fell, could as death!”
“Yes, witchcraft, husband! but such alone
As wives who are faithful have always known.”
Oh, Love is a wonderful wizard!
He can see by his own keen light;
He laughs at the wrath of the tempest,
He has never a fear of the night.
Two lives that are wedded leagues hold not apart:
Love can hear, even through thunder, the beat of a heart!
He can see by his own keen light;
He laughs at the wrath of the tempest,
He has never a fear of the night.
Two lives that are wedded leagues hold not apart:
Love can hear, even through thunder, the beat of a heart!
A sunny, sea-blown cottage-nook was that,—
My father's home, his grandsire's father's home,—
Set where, as from a shoulder, her green cloak
The land trails to the ocean, and begins
The reach of Cape-Ann-Side. Upon the hills
The apple-trees met the descending pines;
Sweet-brier and garden-roses intertwined;
Nature and cultivation joined their hands
To make a home-like place; so buttercups
And daisies, dropped with English grass-seed, grew
Among strange blooms of the aboriginal woods,
And cheered the Pilgrim women with a thought
Of dear haunts left behind; their children now
Scarce know Old England's wild-flowers from our own,
But love the naturalized as the natural:
So in the human world, without, within,
Orson and Valentine live brotherly;—
Though art needs nature more than nature art.
My father's home, his grandsire's father's home,—
Set where, as from a shoulder, her green cloak
The land trails to the ocean, and begins
The reach of Cape-Ann-Side. Upon the hills
The apple-trees met the descending pines;
Sweet-brier and garden-roses intertwined;
Nature and cultivation joined their hands
To make a home-like place; so buttercups
And daisies, dropped with English grass-seed, grew
Among strange blooms of the aboriginal woods,
And cheered the Pilgrim women with a thought
Of dear haunts left behind; their children now
Scarce know Old England's wild-flowers from our own,
But love the naturalized as the natural:
So in the human world, without, within,
Orson and Valentine live brotherly;—
Though art needs nature more than nature art.
A sunny, sea-blown nook, it gathered in
All strays and waifs: loose drifts of slavery,
Stranded in pitiful helplessness, dead weight
Upon their master's hands; or the lone shape
Of some Acadian exile—Gabriel
Homesick for his Evangeline—whose grief
Found no unburdening through his lips; not one
Who needed food or shelter turned aside,
Albeit a patriarchal family
Outgrew and overgrew the gambrel eaves—
A line of stalwart boys and vigorous girls,
Whose hands were their sole fortune, character
And trust in God their sole inheritance.
The boys went forth to face the winds and waves,
Hunters by sea and land; the girls grew up,
Loving, hard-working, patient homekeepers,
Their minds fresh with sea-freedom, all heaven's room
In the large aspiration of their faith.
All strays and waifs: loose drifts of slavery,
Stranded in pitiful helplessness, dead weight
Upon their master's hands; or the lone shape
Of some Acadian exile—Gabriel
Homesick for his Evangeline—whose grief
Found no unburdening through his lips; not one
Who needed food or shelter turned aside,
Albeit a patriarchal family
197
A line of stalwart boys and vigorous girls,
Whose hands were their sole fortune, character
And trust in God their sole inheritance.
The boys went forth to face the winds and waves,
Hunters by sea and land; the girls grew up,
Loving, hard-working, patient homekeepers,
Their minds fresh with sea-freedom, all heaven's room
In the large aspiration of their faith.
Thank God for those old-fashioned sea-side folk,
And for the home that rooted their strong lives
For many generations. Virtues far
Outperfuming the rose,—pure souls, untouched
By the world's frosty standards,—are not these
True growths of our New England atmosphere,
By rarest of exotics unreplaced?
Strangers have found that landscape's beauty out,
And hold its deeds and titles. But the waves
That wash the quiet shores of Beverly,
The winds that gossip with the waves, the sky
That immemorially bends, listening,
Have reminiscences that still assert
Inalienable claims from those who won,
By sweat of their own brows, this heritage.
Fibres will cling, and odors haunt: the Past
Blooms deathless in the unforgetting heart,
A birthright flower, an immortality!
And for the home that rooted their strong lives
For many generations. Virtues far
Outperfuming the rose,—pure souls, untouched
By the world's frosty standards,—are not these
True growths of our New England atmosphere,
By rarest of exotics unreplaced?
Strangers have found that landscape's beauty out,
And hold its deeds and titles. But the waves
That wash the quiet shores of Beverly,
The winds that gossip with the waves, the sky
That immemorially bends, listening,
Have reminiscences that still assert
Inalienable claims from those who won,
By sweat of their own brows, this heritage.
Fibres will cling, and odors haunt: the Past
Blooms deathless in the unforgetting heart,
A birthright flower, an immortality!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |