THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics.

VOL. XXI.-JANUARY, 1868. NO. CXXIII.

THE WIFE.

AN IDYL OF BEARCAMP WATER.

A

LONG the roadside, like the flowers of gold
That tawny Incas in their gardens grew,
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 wall
Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.
A single hay-cart down the dusty road
Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep
On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill,
Huddled along the stone wall's shady side,
The sheep show white, as if a snow-drift 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 lends
To the pervading symphony of peace.

No time is this for hands long overworn

To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise
Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain
Of years that did the work of centuries

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

[January,

2

The Wife.

Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more
Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters

Make glad their nooning underneath the elms
With tale and riddle and old snatch of song,
I lay aside grave themes, and idly play
With fancies borrowed from remembered hills
That beckon to me from the cold blue North.
And yet not idly all. A farmer's son,

Proud of field lore and harvest-craft, and feeling
All their fine possibilities, while yet
Knowing too well the hard necessities
Of labor and privation, and the bare
And colorless realities of life

Without an atmosphere, I fain would see
The rugged outlines touched and glorified
With mellowing haze and golden-tinted mist.
Our yeoman should be equal to his home
Set in these fair green valleys, purple-walled,
A man to match his mountains, not a drudge
Dull as the clod he turns. I fain would teach
In this light way the blind eyes to discern,
And the cold hearts to feel, in common things,
Beatitudes of beauty; and, meanwhile,
Pay somewhat of the mighty debt I owe
To Nature for her ministry of love

And life-long benediction. With the rocks

And woods and mountain valleys which have been
Solace in suffering, and exceeding joy

In life's best moments, I would leave some sign,

When I am but a name and memory,

That I have loved them. Haply, in the years
That wait to take the places of our own,

Whispered upon some breezy balcony

Fronting the hills, or where the lake in the moon
Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth,
In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet

Of Boaz, even this little lay of mine
May lift some burden from a heavy heart,
Or make a light one lighter for its sake.