By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith 2 was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.—

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”—

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.-

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:-

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!-oh, my daughter!"—

2. Wraith. A specter.

Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

14

AMY WENTWORTH

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Her fingers shame the ivory keys
They dance so light along;
The bloom upon her parted lips
Is sweeter than the song.

O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles!
Her thoughts are not of thee;
She better loves the salted wind,
The voices of the sea.

Her heart is like an outbound ship
That at its anchor swings;
The murmur of the stranded shell
Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise,
But dreams the while of one

Who watches from his sea-blown deck
The icebergs in the sun.

She questions all the winds that blow,
And every fog wreath dim,

And bids the sea birds flying north
Bear messages to him.

She speeds them with the thanks of men
He perilled life to save,

And grateful prayers like holy oil
To smooth for him the wave.

Brown Viking of the fishing smack!
Fair toast of all the town!
The skipper's jerkin ill beseems
The lady's silken gown!

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear
For him the blush of shame
Who dares to set his manly gifts
Against her ancient name.

The stream is brightest at its spring,
And blood is not like wine;
Nor honored less than he who heirs
Is he who founds a line.

Full lightly shall the prize be won,
If love be fortune's spur;
And never maiden stoops to him
Who lifts himself to her.

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street,
With stately stairways worn
By feet of old Colonial knights
And ladies gentle born.

Still green about its ample porch

The English ivy twines,

Trained back to show in English oak

The herald's carven signs.

And on her, from the wainscot old,
Ancestral faces frown,-

And this has worn the soldier's sword,
And that the judge's gown.

But, strong of will and proud as they,

She walks the gallery floor

As if she trod her sailor's deck
By stormy Labrador!

The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side,
And green are Elliot's bowers;
Her garden is the pebbled beach,
The mosses are her flowers.

She looks across the harbor bar
To see the white gulls fly;
His greeting from the Northern sea
Is in their clanging cry.

She hums a song, and dreams that he,
As in its romance old,

Shall homeward ride with silken sails
And masts of beaten gold!

O rank is good, and gold is fair,
And high and low mate ill;

But love has never known a law

Beyond its own sweet will!

Maud Muller on a summer's day
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

1. "The poem had no real foundation in fact; though a hint of it may have been found in recalling an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maine seaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stopped to rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple tree, and refresh him with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wall across the road. A very beautiful girl in scantiest summer attire was at work in the hayfield, and as we talked with her we noticed that she strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing as she did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck."-Whittier.