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Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;
No small boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,

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But lies distinct and full in sight,
Beneath this gush of sunset light.
Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,
And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,
Saw the adventurer's tiny sail,

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;
And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, 30
As brightly on the voyager's eye
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
Breaking the dull continuous wood,
The Merrimac rolled down his flood;
Mingling that clear pellucid brook,
Which channels vast Agioochook

When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
The frozen fountains of the rock,

And more abundant waters given
From that pure lake,

Heaven,' 1

The Smile of

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1 Winnipesaukee. The Indian Lame was thought to mean The Smile of the Great Spirit.' See The Lakeside' and Summer by the Lakeside.'

The celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the government of the Colony in Virginia, in his capacity of Admiral of New England,' made a careful survey of the coast from Penobscot to Cape Cod, in the sum mer of 1614. (WHITTIER.)

3 Captain Smith gave to the promontory now called

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But look! the yellow light no more
Streams down on wave and verdant shore;
And clearly on the calm air swells
The twilight voice of distant bells.
From Ocean's bosom, white and thin,
The mists come slowly rolling in;
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
Amidst the sea-like vapor swim,
While yonder lonely coast-light, set
Within its wave-washed minaret,
Half quenched, a beamless star and pale,
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!

Home of my fathers! I have stood
Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood:
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade
Along his frowning Palisade;
Looked down the Appalachian peak
On Juniata's silver streak;
Have seen along his valley gleam
The Mohawk's softly winding stream;
The level light of sunset shine
Through broad Potomac's hem of pine;
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
Yet wheresoe'er his step might be,
Thy wandering child looked back to thee!
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,
The unforgotten swell and roar
Of waves on thy familiar shore;
And saw, amidst the curtained gloom
And quiet of his lonely room,
Thy sunset scenes before him pass;
As, in Agrippa's magic glass,
The loved and lost arose to view,
Remembered groves in greenness grew,
Bathed still in childhood's morning dew,
Along whose bowers of beauty swept
Whatever Memory's mourners wept,

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Cape Ann, the name of Tragabizanda, in memory of his young and beautiful mistress of that name, who, while he was a captive at Constantinople, like Desdemona, loved him for the dangers he had passed.' (WHITTIER.)

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A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,
With step as light as summer air,
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair;
A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

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Which melted through its graceful
bower,

Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,

Unfolding like a morning flower:

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,
With every breath of feeling woke,
And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening chain

Of memory, at the thought of thee! Old hopes which long in dust have lain, Old dreams, come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me;

I feel its glow upon my cheek,

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1 It was not without thought and deliberation, that in 1888 he directed this poem to be placed at the head of his Poems Subjective and Reminiscent. He had never before publicly acknowledged how much of his heart was wrapped up in this delightful play of poetic fancy. The poem was written in 1841, and although the romance it embalms lies far back of this date, possibly there is a heart still beating which fully understands its meaning. The biographer can do no more than make this suggestion, which has the sanction of the poet's explicit word. To a friend who told him that Memories was her favorite poem, he said, 'I love it too; but I hardly knew whether to publish it, it was so personal and near my heart.' (Pickard's Life of Whittier, vol. i, p. 276.)

See also Pickard's Whittier-Land, pp. 66-67, and the poem My Playmate.'

2 Whittier was especially fond of these two opening stanzas. He had already used the lines to describe an ideal character in Moll Pitcher,' published in 1832, but not now included in his collected works.

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1 In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for non-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the General Court issued an order empowering The Treasurer of the County to sell the said person8 to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines.' An attempt was made to carry this order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies. (WHITTIER

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'Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet,

Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street?

Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ?

'Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra ? — Bethink thee with what mirth The happy schoolmates gather around the warm, bright hearth;

How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair,

On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.

Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid,

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For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.

'O weak, deluded maiden! - by crazy fancies led,

With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread;

To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound,

And mate with maniac women, loosehaired and sackcloth bound,

'Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine,

Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine;

Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame,

Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.

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Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white,

And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.

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Bless the Lord for all his mercies! the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt;

When Get behind me, Satan!' was the language of my heart,

And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell,

Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell;

The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street

Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.

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At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast,

And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed;

I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see,

How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek,

And what a fate awaits thee! -a sadly Swam earth and sky around me, my trem

toiling slave,

bling limbs grew weak:

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