John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Appendix II. Poems Printed in the ‘Life of Whittier’A Legend of the Lake
S
As haply you sometime may,
Sailing up the Winnepesaukee
From the hills of Alton Bay,—
Into the north wind free,
Through the rising and vanishing islands,
Over the mountain sea,—
White in its mountain fold,
Asleep by the lake and dreaming
A dream that is never told,—
Your pilgrim home you make,
Where the chambers open to sunrise,
The mountains, and the lake,—
As the fairest sometimes will,
And the weight of the hills lies on you
And the water is all too still,—
Redden with sunrise fire,
And the sky and the purple mountains
And the sunset islands tire,—
And the clatter of bowls without,
And the folly that goes on its travels
Bearing the city about,—
Come hunting along your track,
As Blue-Cap in German fable
Rode on the traveller’s pack,—
Of one who is now no more,
A tale to haunt like a spirit
The Winnepesaukee shore,—
And strong for manly strife,
Riding with cheering and music
Into the tourney of life.
In the Tempter’s subtle snare,
The chains of an evil habit
He bowed himself to bear.
The bestial veil was flung,—
The curse of the wine of Circe,
The spell her weavers sung.
Their summer idyls frame;
Alone in his darkened dwelling
He hid his face for shame.
Sounded for him in vain;
The voices of human duty
Smote on his ear like pain.
The curtains of sunset swung;
In vain on the beautiful mountains
The pictures of God were hung.
Each sadder than the last;
All the bloom of life fell from him,
All the freshness and greenness past.
And unprofaned he kept
The love of his saintly mother,
Who in the graveyard slept.
Its comfortless walls were bare:
But the riches of earth and ocean
Could not purchase his mother’s chair.
With oaken arms outspread,
Whereby, in the long gone twilights,
His childish prayers were said.
By moon or starlight dim,
A face full of love and pity
And tenderness looked on him.
Sat in his mother’s chair,
The groan of his self-upbraiding
Grew into wordless prayer.
The summoning angel came,
Severe in his pity, touching
The house with fingers of flame.
And flared from its sinking roof;
And baffled and awed before it
The villagers stood aloof.
They turned from the furnace glare;
But its tenant cried, “God help me!
I must save my mother’s chair.”
Over the floor of fire,
He seemed, in the terrible splendor,
A martyr on his pyre.
And stung him on either side;
But he clung to the sacred relic,—
By his mother’s chair he died!
O saint, by the altar stairs!
Shall not the dear God give thee
The child of thy many prayers?
Though erring, are forgiven,
Hast thou for him no refuge,
No quiet place in heaven?
And crown thy saints with gold,
But let the mother welcome
Her lost one to thy fold!