Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17.djvu/158

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,
In sweetness, not in music, dying,—
 Hardback and virgin's-bower,
 And white-spiked clethra-flower.

With careless ears they heard the plash
And breezy wash of Attitash,
 The wood-bird's plaintive cry,
 The locust's sharp reply.

And teased the while, with playful hand,
The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,
 Whose uncouth frolic spilled
 Their baskets berry-filled.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes
Was evermore a great surprise,
 Tossed back her queenly head,
 And, lightly laughing, said,—

"No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold
That is not lined with yellow gold;
 I tread no cottage-floor;
 I own no lover poor.

"My love must come on silken wings,
With bridal lights of diamond rings,—
 Not foul with kitchen smirch,
 With tallow-dip for torch."

The other, on whose modest head
Was lesser dower of beauty shed,
 With look for home-hearths meet,
 And voice exceeding sweet,

Answered,—"We will not rivals be;
Take thou the gold, leave love to me;
 Mine be the cottage small,
 And thine the rich man's hall.

"I know, indeed, that wealth is good;
But lowly roof and simple food,
 With love that hath no doubt,
 Are more than gold without."

Behind the wild grape's tangled screen,
Beholding them, himself unseen,
 A young man, straying near,
 The maidens chanced to hear.

He saw the pride of beauty born,
He heard the red lips' words of scorn;
 And, like a silver bell,
 That sweet voice answering well.