'And this,' they said, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow.

"Oh, the poor, lame weaver,
How will he laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin:
I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
'And I want some more to spin.

"I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;

A little sheet for Mary's bed,
And an apron for her mother.'

"With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon Low There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon Low The mists were cold and gray,

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones, That round about me lay.

"But coming down from the hilltop

I heard afar below

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how the wheel did go.

THE PHANTOM SHIP

"And I peeped into the widow's field,
And, sure enough, were seen

The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stout and green.

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were sprung;

And I met the weaver at his gate,
With the good news on his tongue.

"Now this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see;

So, prythee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be."

Mary Howitt.

95

THE PHANTOM SHIP

IN Mather's Magnalia Christi,
Of the old colonial time,

May be found in prose the legend
That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,
And the keen and frosty airs,

That filled her sails at parting,

Were heavy with good men's prayers.

"O Lord! if it be thy pleasure

Thus prayed the old divine

"To bury our friends in the ocean,

Take them, for they are thine!"

But Master Lamberton muttered,

And under his breath said he, "This ship is so crank and walty I fear our grave she will be!"

And the ships that came from England,
When the winter months were gone,
Brought no tidings of this vessel,
Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying

That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom

He had done with friends so dear.

And at last their prayers were answered: It was in the month of June,

An hour before the sunset

Of a windy afternoon,

When, steadily steering landward,

A ship was seen below,

And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago.

On she came, with a cloud of canvas,
Right against the wind that blew,
Until the eye could distinguish

The faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,

Hanging tangled in the shrouds,

THE BAREFOOT BOY

And her sails were loosened and lifted,
And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,

And the hulk dilated and vanished,

As a sea-mist in the sun!

And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend,

That this was the mould of their vessel,
And thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the village
Gave thanks to God in prayer,
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
He had sent this Ship of Air.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

97

THE BAREFOOT BOY

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace :
From my heart I give thee joy,
I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,

Only is republican.

the grown-up man

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

For, eschewing books and tasks,

Nature answers all he asks;