THE MAIDEN

Why seeks the knight that rocky cape

Beyond the Bay of Lynn?

What chance his wayward course may shape

To reach its village inn?

No story tells; whate'er we guess,

The past lies deaf and still,

But Fate, who rules to blight or bless,

Can lead us where she will.

Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four,

And liveried grooms that ride!

They cross the ferry, touch the shore

On Winnisimmet's side.

They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,—

The level marsh they pass,

Where miles on miles the desert reach

Is rough with bitter grass.

The shining horses foam and pant,

And now the smells begin

Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant,

And leather-scented Lynn.

Next, on their left, the slender spires

And glittering vanes that crown

The home of Salem's frugal sires,

The old, witch-haunted town.

So onward, o'er the rugged way

That runs through rocks and sand,

Showered by the tempest-driven spray,

From bays on either hand,

That shut between their outstretched arms

The crews of Marblehead,

The lords of ocean's watery farms,

Who plough the waves for bread.

At last the ancient inn appears,

The spreading elm below,

Whose flapping sign these fifty years

Has seesawed to and fro.

How fair the azure fields in sight

Before the low-browed inn

The tumbling billows fringe with light

The crescent shore of Lynn;

Nahant thrusts outward through the waves

Her arm of yellow sand,

And breaks the roaring surge that braves

The gauntlet on her hand;

With eddying whirl the waters lock

Yon treeless mound forlorn,

The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock,

That fronts the Spouting Horn;

Then free the white-sailed shallops glide,

And wide the ocean smiles,

Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide

The two bare Misery Isles.

The master's silent signal stays

The wearied cavalcade;

The coachman reins his smoking bays

Beneath the elm-tree's shade.

A gathering on the village green!

The cocked-hats crowd to see,

On legs in ancient velveteen,

With buckles at the knee.

A clustering round the tavern-door

Of square-toed village boys,

Still wearing, as their grandsires wore,

The old-world corduroys!

A scampering at the “Fountain” inn,— -

A rush of great and small,—

With hurrying servants’ mingled din

And screaming matron's call.

Poor Agnes! with her work half done

They caught her unaware;

As, humbly, like a praying nun,

She knelt upon the stair;

Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien

She knelt, but not to pray,—

Her little hands must keep them clean,

And wash their stains away.

A foot, an ankle, bare and white,

Her girlish shapes betrayed,—

“Ha! Nymphs and Graces!” spoke the Knight;

“Look up, my beauteous Maid!”

She turned,— a reddening rose in bud,

Its calyx half withdrawn,—

Her cheek on fire with damasked blood

Of girlhood's glowing dawn!

He searched her features through and through,

As royal lovers look

On lowly maidens, when they woo

Without the ring and book.

“Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet!

Nay, prithee, look not down!

Take this to shoe those little feet,” —

He tossed a silver crown.

A sudden paleness struck her brow,—

A swifter blush succeeds;

It burns her cheek; it kindles now

Beneath her golden beads.

She flitted, but the glittering eye

Still sought the lovely face.

Who was she? What, and whence? and why

Doomed to such menial place?

A skipper's daughter,— so they said,—

Left orphan by the gale

That cost the fleet of Marblehead

And Gloucester thirty sail.

Ah! many a lonely home is found

Along the Essex shore,

That cheered its goodman outward bound,

And sees his face no more!

“Not so,” the matron whispered,— “sure

No orphan girl is she,—

The Surriage folk are deadly poor

Since Edward left the sea,

“And Mary, with her growing brood,

Has work enough to do

To find the children clothes and food

With Thomas, John, and Hugh.

“This girl of Mary's, growing tall,—

( Just turned her sixteenth year,) —

To earn her bread and help them all,

Would work as housemaid here.”

So Agnes, with her golden beads,

And naught beside as dower,

Grew at the wayside with the weeds,

Herself a garden-flower.

‘ T was strange,‘ t was sad,— so fresh, so fair!

Thus Pity's voice began.

Such grace! an angel's shape and air!

The half-heard whisper ran.

For eyes could see in George's time,

As now in later days,

And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,

The honeyed breath of praise.

No time to woo! The train must go

Long ere the sun is down,

To reach, before the night-winds blow,

The many-steepled town.

‘ T is midnight,— street and square are still;

Dark roll the whispering waves

That lap the piers beneath the hill

Ridged thick with ancient graves.

Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth

The weary couch of pain,

When all thy poppies fail to soothe

The lover's throbbing brain!

‘ T is morn,— the orange-mantled sun

Breaks through the fading gray,

And long and loud the Castle gun

Peals o'er the glistening bay.

“Thank God‘ t is day!” With eager eye

He hails the morning shine:—

“If art can win, or gold can buy,

The maiden shall be mine!”