Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, And liveried grooms that ride! They cross the ferry, touch the shore On Winnisimmet's side. They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach, – The level marsh they pass, Where miles on miles the desert reach Is rough with bitter grass. The shining horses foam and pant, Of fishy Swampscot, salt Nahant, Next, on their left, the slender spires, So onward, o'er the rugged way That runs through rocks and sand, Showered by the tempest-driven spray, From bays on either hand, That shut between their outstretched arms The lords of ocean's watery farms, At last the ancient inn appears, How fair the azure fields in sight Before the low-browed inn ! The tumbling billows fringe with light Nahant thrusts outward through the waves Her arm of yellow sand, And breaks the roaring surge that braves The gauntlet on her hand; With eddying whirl the waters lock Yon treeless mound forlorn, The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock, That fronts the Spouting Horn; Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, And wide the ocean smiles, Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide The two bare Misery Isles. The master's silent signal stays The wearied cavalcade ; The coachman reins his smoking bays A gathering on the village green! On legs in ancient velveteen, A clustering round the tavern-door Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, The old-world corduroys! A scampering at the "Fountain” inn, A rush of great and small, - And screaming matron's call! Poor Agnes! with her work half done They caught her unaware; As, humbly, like a praying nun, She knelt upon the stair; Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien She knelt, but not to pray, Her little hands must keep them clean, A foot, an ankle, bare and white "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight; "Look up, my beauteous Maid!" She turned, -a reddening rose in bud, Its calyx half withdrawn, Her cheek on fire with damasked blood Of girlhood's glowing dawn! He searched her features through and through, As royal lovers look On lowly maidens, when they woo Without the ring and book. "Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet! Nay, prithee, look not down! Take this to shoe those little feet,” He tossed a silver crown. A sudden paleness struck her brow,- It burns her cheek; it kindles now She flitted, but the glittering eye Still sought the lovely face. Who was she? What, and whence? and why Doomed to such menial place? Left orphan by the gale That cost the fleet of Marblehead And Gloucester thirty sail. Ah! many a lonely home is found Along the Essex shore, That cheered its goodman outward bound, And sees his face no more! |