Poems (Follen)/Nancy's Brook

by Eliza Lee Cabot Follen

NANCY'S BROOK.

The following story was related to the writer on the spot, when on a journey to the White Mountains.

Stay! traveller, through the mountain pass;
 Rest thee within this flowery nook;
Here listen to the thrush's song,
 And the sweet sound of Nancy's brook.

Traveller, I will a story tell,
 From tradition's living book,
Of how this gentle streamlet here
 Received the name of Nancy's brook.

Within this mountain's giant arms,
 In days gone by, two lovers dwelt;
And all love knows of truth and joy,
 These faithful cottage lovers felt.

Nancy was pure as yon blue sky,
 And sweet and fresh as this wild flower;
Her smile made glad the wilderness,
 Her beauty was her only dower.

There came the hour of worldly care,—
 As come it will to tenderest heart:
He must go forth to earn them bread,
 And they must weep, for they must part.

They made no vow of deathless love:
 Ah! who can speak that feels as they?
These hills shall crumble into dust,
 Ere love like theirs shall pass away.

Far from his Nancy, William went;
 Sore was his bosom's silent strife:
He lived and labored for that day
 When Nancy should become his wife.

Now winter comes; through stiffen'd trees
 The north wind sweeps with angry roar;
All shivering with cold there stands
 A traveller at the cottage door.

Who is it opens it for him?
 Who takes the letter from his hands?
'T is Nancy; see, she reads;—and see,
 White as the drifted snow she stands.

"William is ill; may die,"—she cries;
 "'T is I alone can soothe his pain;
He sends for me, and I will go;"
 And now her color comes again.

Her aged parents' warning words
 She does not heed; she may not mind:
Her William ill; all other fears
 Are nought—are given to the wind.

Now the sweet hour of evening prayer
 Has calmed and cheered poor Nancy's heart:
She said,—"Dear father, bless your child;
 Dear mother, kiss me, ere we part."

"Bless thee, my child!" her father cries,
 And her dear head with tears embalms:
In silent grief, her mother wept,
 And wrapt her in her shelt'ring arms.

The piercing cold by her unfelt,
 At the first streak of early dawn,
No farewell said, no danger feared,
 Nancy to him she loves is gone.

There was not then this smooth, broad road;
 A rough and narrow path alone
Led to the mountain temple then,
 And made its deep recesses known.

The dull, cold sun, no cheering ray
 Upon the trembling traveller shed;
The driving snow and piercing wind
 Beat on her young, devoted head—

Unheeded still, for in her breast,
 Love, hope, and fear, with restless strife,
Made her unconscious of the cold
 That froze the fountains of her life.

Like a spent child, she sank to rest;
 Upon a snow-drift laid her head:
The mountain held her lifeless form;
 Her spirit to her William fled.

'T was by this stream, her loving soul,
 Its tender, earthly frame forsook.
They found her fast asleep in death,
 And hence they called it Nancy's brook.