The Writings of John Greenleaf Whittier/Volume 1/Among the Hills
AMONG THE HILLS.
This poem, when originally published, was dedicated to Annie Fields, wife of the distinguished publisher, James T. Fields, of Boston, in grateful acknowledgment of the strength and inspiration I have found in her friendship and sympathy.
The poem in its first form was entitled The Wife: an Idyl of Bearcamp Water, and appeared in The Atlantic Monthly for January, 1868. When I published the volume Among the Hills, in December of the same year, I expanded the Prelude and filled out also the outlines of the story.
PRELUDE.
Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers Hang motionless upon their upright staves. The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, Wing-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, Confesses it. The locust by the wallStabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.A single hay-cart down the dusty roadCreaks slowly, with its driver fast asleepOn the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, Huddled along the stone wall's shady side,The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still Defied the dog-star. Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers—gray heliotrope, And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace. No time is this for hands long over-wornTo task their strength: and (unto Him be praiseWho giveth quietness!) the stress and strainOf years that did the work of centuriesHave ceased, and we can draw our breath once moreFreely and full. So, as yon harvestersMake glad their nooning underneath the elmsWith tale and riddle and old snatch of song,I lay aside grave themes, and idly turnThe leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'erOld summer pictures of the quiet hills,And human life, as quiet, at their feet.
And yet not idly all. A farmer's son,Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling All their fine possibilities, how richAnd restful even poverty and toilBecome when beauty, harmony, and loveSit at their humble hearth as angels satAt evening in the patriarch's tent, when man Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frockThe symbol of a Christian chivalryTender and just and generous to herWho clothes with grace all duty; still, I know Too well the picture has another side,—How wearily the grind of toil goes onWhere love is wanting, how the eye and ear And heart are starved amidst the plenitudeOf nature, and how hard and colorlessIs life without an atmosphere. I lookAcross the lapse of half a century, And call to mind old homesteads, where no flowerTold that the spring had come, but evil weeds,Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the placeOf the sweet doorway greeting of the roseAnd honeysuckle, where the house walls seemedBlistering in sun, without a tree or vineTo cast the tremulous shadow of its leavesAcross the curtainless windows, from whose panesFluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness.Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, unwashed(Broom-clean I think they called it); the best roomStifling with cellar damp, shut from the airIn hot midsummer, bookless, picturelessSave the inevitable sampler hungOver the fireplace, or a mourning piece,A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneathImpossible willows; the wide-throated hearthBristling with faded pine-boughs half concealingThe piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back;And, in sad keeping with all things about them,Shrill, querulous women, sour and sullen men,Untidy, loveless, old before their time,With scarce a human interest save their ownMonotonous round of small economies,Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood;Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed,Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet;For them the song-sparrow and the bobolinkSang not, nor winds made music in the leaves;For them in vain October's holocaustBurned, gold and crimson, over all the hills,The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers,But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent,Saving, as shrewd economists, their soulsAnd winter pork with the least possible outlayOf salt and sanctity; in daily lifeShowing as little actual comprehensionOf Christian charity and love and duty,As if the Sermon on the Mount had beenOutdated like a last year’s almanacRich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields,And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless,The veriest straggler limping on his rounds,The sun and air his sole inheritance,Laughed at a poverty that paid its taxes,And hugged his rags in self-complacency!
Not such should be the homesteads of a landWhere whoso wisely wills and acts may dwellAs king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state,With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to makeHis hour of leisure richer than a lifeOf fourscore to the barons of old time,Our yeoman should be equal to his homeSet in the fair, green valleys, purple walled,A man to match his mountains, not to creepDwarfed and abased below them. I would fainIn this light way (of which I needs must ownWith the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings,“Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you!”)Invite the eye to see and heart to feelThe beauty and the joy within their reach,—Home, and home loves, and the beatitudesOf nature free to all. Haply in years That wait to take the places of our own,Heard where some breezy balcony looks downOn happy homes, or where the lake in the moonSleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth,In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feetOf Boaz, even this simple lay of mineMay seem the burden of a prophecy,Finding its late fulfilment in a changeSlow as the oak’s growth, lifting manhood upThrough broader culture, finer manners, love,And reverence, to the level of the hills.
O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn,And not of sunset, forward, not behind,Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee bringAll the old virtues, whatsoever thingsAre pure and honest and of good repute,But add thereto whatever bard has sungOr seer has told of when in trance and dreamThey saw the Happy Isles of prophecyLet Justice hold her scale, and Truth divideBetween the right and wrong; but give the heartThe freedom of its fair inheritance;Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so long,At Nature’s table feast his ear and eyeWith joy and wonder; let all harmoniesOf sound, form, color, motion, wait uponThe princely guest, whether in soft attireOf leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil,And, lending life to the dead form of faith,Give human nature reverence for the sake Of One who bore it, making it divineWith the ineffable tenderness of God;Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer,The heirship of an unknown destiny,The unsolved mystery round about us, makeA man more precious than the gold of Ophir.Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all thingsShould minister, as outward types and signsOf the eternal beauty which fulfilsThe one great purpose of creation, Love,The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven!
For weeks the clouds had raked the hills And vexed the vales with raining,And all the woods were sad with mist, And all the brooks complaining.
At last, a sudden night-storm tore The mountain veils asunder,And swept the valleys clean before The bosom of the thunder.
Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang Good morrow to the cotter;And once again Chocorua’s horn Of shadow pierced the water.
Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing,Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing.
Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter’s keenness;And, close on autumn’s frost, the vales Had more than June’s fresh greenness.
Again the sodden forest floors With golden lights were checkered,Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered.
It was as if the summer’s late Atoning for it’s sadnessHad borrowed every season’s charm To end its days in gladness.
I call to mind those banded vales Of shadow and of shining,Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in day’s declining.
We held our sideling way above The river’s whitening shallows,By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns Swept through and through by swallows,—
By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darklyThe mountain slopes, and, over all, The great peaks rising starkly.
You should have seen that long hill-range With gaps of brightness riven,—How through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven,—
Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains,—The great sun flaming through the rifts Beyond the wall of mountains!
We paused at last where home-bound cows Brought down the pasture’s treasure,And in the barn the rhythmic flails Beat out a harvest measure.
We heard the night-hawk’s sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling:The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling.
And through them smote the level sun In broken lines of splendor,Touched the gray rocks and made the green Of the shorn grass more tender.
The maples bending o’er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tintedWith yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted.
Keen white between the farm-house showed, And smiled on porch and trellis,The fair democracy of flowers That equals cot and palace.
And weaving garlands for her dog, ’Twixt chidings and caresses,A human flower of childhood shook The sunshine from her tresses.
On either hand we saw the signs Of fancy and of shrewdness,Where taste had wound its arms of vines Round thrift’s uncomely rudeness.
The sun-brown farmer in his frock Shook hands, and called to MaryBare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy.
Her air, her smile, her motions, told Of womanly completeness;A music as of household songs Was in her voice of sweetness.
Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better,The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter;—
An inborn grace that nothing lacked Of culture or appliance,—The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance.
Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utterThe paltry errand of her need To buy her fresh-churned butter?
She led the way with housewife pride, Her goodly store disclosing,Full tenderly the golden balls With practised hands disposing.
Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful gloryOf sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story.
The early crickets sang; the stream Plashed through my friend’s narration:Her rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free-translation.
“More wise,” she said, “than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer,She came, when June’s first roses blow, To greet the early comer.
“From school and ball and rout she came, The city’s fair, pale daughter,To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water.
“Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over;On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover.
“For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing:There’s iron in our Northern winds; Our pines are trees of healing.
“She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow,And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow.
"Beside her, from the summer heat To share her grateful screening,With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning.
"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face Had nothing mean or common,—Strong, manly, true, the tenderness And pride beloved of woman.
"She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her,And, laughing, said: 'You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter.
"'To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady:Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready,—
"'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure,Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure.'
"He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly.''T is well,' he said, 'for one like you To choose for me so lightly.
"'You think, because my life is rude I take no note of sweetness:I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness.
"'Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashionWhen silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion.
"'You think me deaf and blind: you bring Your winning graces hitherAs free as if from cradle-time We two had played together.
"'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes,A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes.
"'The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around meYou cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me.
"'You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me;What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me?
"'No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my motherWho loves you loses in that love All power to love another!
"'I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding;I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading.'
"She looked up in his face of pain So archly, yet so tender'And if I lend you mine,' she said, 'Will you forgive the lender?
"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; And see you not, my farmer,How weak and fond a woman waits Behind this silken armor?
"'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming,Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming?'
"Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining,Looked down to see love's miracle,— The giving that is gaining.
"And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughterThere looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water.
"Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty;Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.
"Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming,And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming.
"Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching;The still refreshment of the dew Is her unconscious teaching.
"And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing;Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing.
"And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gather,Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather,—
"In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blowing,And sweetly from its thawing veins The maple's blood is flowing,—
"In summer, where some lilied pond Its virgin zone is baring,Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring,—
"The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces,A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces.
"Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it.If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.
"For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is her debtor;Who holds to his another's heart Must needs be worse or better.
"Through her his civic service shows A purer-toned ambition;No double consciousness divides The man and politician.
"In party's doubtful ways he trusts Her instincts to determine;At the loud polls, the thought of her Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon.
"He owns her logic of the heart, And wisdom of unreason,Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, The needed word in season.
"He sees with pride her richer thought, Her fancy's freer ranges;And love thus deepened to respect Is proof against all changes.
"And if she walks at ease in ways His feet are slow to travel,And if she reads with cultured eyes What his may scarce unravel,
"Still clearer, for her keener sight Of beauty and of wonder,He learns the meaning of the hills He dwelt from childhood under.
"And higher, warmed with summer lights, Or winter-crowned and hoary,The ridged horizon lifts for him Its inner veils of glory.
"He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him,The wisdom which the woods and hills And toiling men have brought him:
"The steady force of will whereby Her flexile grace seems sweeter;The sturdy counterpoise which makes Her woman's life completer.
"A latent fire of soul which lacks No breath of love to fan it;And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid granite.
"How dwarfed against his manliness She sees the poor pretension,The wants, the aims, the follies, born Of fashion and convention.
"How life behind its accidents Stands strong and self-sustaining,The human fact transcending all The losing and the gaining.
"And so in grateful interchange Of teacher and of hearer,Their lives their true distinctness keep While daily drawing nearer.
"And if the husband or the wife In home's strong light discoversSuch slight defaults as failed to meet The blinded eyes of lovers,
"Why need we care to ask?—who dreams Without their thorns of roses,Or wonders that the truest steel The readiest spark discloses?
"For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living;Love scarce is love that never knows The sweetness of forgiving.
"We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither;No prouder man election day Rides through the sweet June weather.
"He sees with eyes of manly trust All hearts to her inclining;Not less for him his household light That others share its shining."
Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew Before me, warmer tintedAnd outlined with a tenderer grace, The picture that she hinted.
The sunset smouldered as we drove Beneath the deep hill-shadows.Below us wreaths of white fog walked Like ghosts the haunted meadows.
Sounding the summer night, the stars Dropped down their golden plummets;The pale are of the Northern lights Rose o'er the mountain summits,
Until, at last, beneath its bridge, We heard the Bearcamp flowing,And saw across the mapled lawn The welcome home-lights glowing.
And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if oftenTo rugged farm-life came the gift To harmonize and soften;
If more and more we found the troth Of fact and fancy plighted,And culture's charm and labor's strength In rural homes united,—
The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding,And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding.1868.