Who serves to-day upon the list The weak is strong to-day; And sleekest broadcloth counts no more To-day let pomp and vain pretence I set a plain man's common sense 10 2C 1 When I was fourteen years old my first schoolmaster, Joshua Coffin, the able, eccentric historian of Newbury, brought with him to our house a volume of Burns's poems, from which he read, greatly to my delight. I begged him to leave the book with me, and set myself at once to the task of mastering the glossary of the Scottish dialect at its close. This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures. (WHITTIER, in his Autobiographical Letter; Carpenter's Whittier, pp. 298-299.) One day we had a call from a 'pawky auld carle' of a wandering Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider he gave us 'Bonny Doon,' 'Highland Mary' and 'Auld Lang Syne.' He had a rich, full voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have since listened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster, than whom the Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter ; but the skilful performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's singing in the old farmhouse kitchen. (WHITTIER, Yankee Gypsies,' in his Prose Works, vol. i, pp. 336-337; also quoted in Carpenter's Whittier, p. 30.) New light on home-seen Nature beamed, No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Than all the dreams that held my youth That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The tender idyls of the heart Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, I saw through all familiar things 50 60 The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even, That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 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 young girl in scantest summer attire was at work in the hay-field, 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.) trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Maud Muller looked and sighed: 'Ah me! 'He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. 'My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. 40 'I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. 'And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door.' The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. |