With mute obeisance, grave and slow,
Repaid by nod polite, -

For such the way with high and low

Till after Concord fight.

Nor less to courtly circles known
That graced the three-hilled town
With far-off splendors of the Throne,
And glimmerings from the Crown;

Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state

For Shirley over sea;

Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late, The King Street mob's decree;

And judges grave, and colonels grand,

Fair dames and stately men,

The mighty people of the land,

The "World" of there and then.

'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form," And "Eyes' cœlestial Blew,"

This Strephon of the West could warm,

No Nymph his Heart subdue!

Perchance he wooed as gallants use,
Whom fleeting loves enchain,

But still unfettered, free to choose,
Would brook no bridle-rein.

He saw the fairest of the fair,
But smiled alike on all;

No band his roving foot might snare,
No ring his hand enthrall.

PART SECOND.

THE MAIDEN.

WHY seeks the knight that rocky cape
Beyond the Bay of Lynn?

What chance his wayward course may shape
To reach its village inn?

No story tells; whate'er we guess,

The past lies deaf and still,

But Fate, who rules to blight or bless,

Can lead us where she will.

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,

And now the smells begin

Of fishy Swampscot, salt Nahant,
And leather-scented Lynn.

Next, on their left, the slender spires,
And glittering vanes, that crown
The home of Salem's frugal sires,
The old, witch-haunted town.

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 crews of Marblehead,

The lords of ocean's watery farms,

Who plough the waves for bread.

At last the ancient inn appears,
The spreading elm below,
Whose flapping sign these fifty years
Has seesawed to and fro.

How fair the azure fields in sight

Before the low-browed inn!

The tumbling billows fringe with light
The crescent shore of Lynn;

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
Beneath the elm-tree's shade.

A gathering on the village green !
The cocked-hats crowd to see,

On legs in ancient velveteen,

With buckles at the knee!

A clustering round the tavern-door
Of square-toed village boys,

Still wearing, as their grandsires wore,
The old-world corduroys!

A scampering at the "Fountain” inn, —
A rush of great and small, —
With hurrying servants' mingled din

And screaming matron's call!