MARY GARVIN
From the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails,
Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway’s intervales;
There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow,
As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago.
But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills,
How changed is Saco’s stream, how lost its freedom of the hills,
Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon
Heard on its banks the gray wolf’s howl, the trumpet of the loon!
With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam,
Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream.
Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fast
The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past.
But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrow and the sin,
The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own akin;
And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs our mothers sung,
Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always young.
O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco’s banks to-day!
O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's restless play!
Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand beguile,
And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or smile!
The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort Mary’s walls;
Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and plunged the Saco’s falls.
And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and gusty grew,
Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwink blew.
On the hearth of Farmer Garvin, blazed the crackling walnut log;
Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between them lay the dog,
Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her mat,
Sitting drowsy in the firelight, winked and purred the mottled cat.
“Twenty years!” said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under breath,
And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death.
The goodwife dropped her needles: “It is twenty years to-day,
Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away.”
Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other’s thought,
Of a great and common sorrow, and words were needed not.
“Who knocks?” cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open thrown;
On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, the fire-light shone.
One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his head;
“Lives here Elkanah Garvin?” “I am he,” the goodman said.
“Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain.”
And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain.
The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelight glistened fair
In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair.
Dame Garvin looked upon her: “It is Mary’s self I see!
Dear heart!” she cried, “now tell me, has my child come back to me?”
