The Republican journal., 1905-07-20
CAMDEN.
BY ALICE LENA COLE.

l..
This Is the place
OF perfect beauty, even as race
That time can neither mar nor cnange,
Nor absence render strange.
Altar sight thee by thy purple brows
Admired of wandering prows.
And now the blue melts into living green
With violet lights betWeen,-
Hills not too high nor keen
To be beloved. Oh, elsewhere have we seen
Cold barren crags on high,
Snow-fringed, and alien peaks that prick
Remote and isolate, but round all seas
Nothing to rival these!
And now the pier draws nlgh,
Behind us fades away the f9amy track
That to the world leads back,
Back to a struggling world, wherein the
Is to the swift, and even the victor's palm
Ia dusty but the hills rise clean and calm
The tide goes ebbing, ebbing down the
Leaving gaunt-ribbed hull far up the sand,
And on the vane the dolphin veers apace,
To point me to the land.
Once more the turnpike Will take,
That, built above the lake,
Winds round the base of old Megunticook,
With rugged pictures that dissolve and pass
One after one,-an amethystine mass
Of cliff, dark trees, gray boulders poised in
flight
Down to field of grass,
Or where the sweet blue waters break.
And on the height seen for moment, look
A slender cross of white,
Where the bird hangs her nest,
And from her niche, safe in the granite
ledge,
Warming the eggs beneath her breast,
May watch on the horizons edge
Nay, we have left the sea behind,
The uneasy heart-throb of the tide,
Over the peaceful lake to ride,
And the shores close in from hill to hill
But thought, that will not pause nor bide,
Speeds on DER meadows waving IN the wind,
Thro' thickets haunted by the whip-poor-
will,
To an ancient wood with misunderstanding
sod.
No sound nor ripple Of motion anywhere
In all the amber air
Where the great pines go climbing straight
And there is no more hath been or shall be-
".
Forget the sea? From Battles tower
today,
Below me spreading flat and far
Like blue map, saw Penobscot Bay,
Thick sown with islands green;
Vague on the shore-line far away,
Bluehill and rare Castine,
And yonder Mount Desert, the island queen,
Hinged by the azure mile on mile;
Here isle au Haut, glancing with opal
sheen,
Fair Islesboro, and Vinalhaven's isle.
While south from Rockland's harbor bar,
Past Owls Head light, prompt as the even
ing star,
Slow oli1ipo dn1Un tho mi StV Ocaan-marpa
Forget the sea! If once the brow be wet,
If once the cheeks be scOurged with sting
ing spray,
Who shall the sea forget?
Wine is this mountain-air. but tang of its
wine
The sharp breath of the brine
As we go down, the tide comes pouring in,
Like pent river, when it finds release,
And from the deep trembleS an echo thin !;
s'Behold, am bitter, and beneath the sky
No peace nor rest have l,
Only the gift of peace
voice rising above the ocean din,
Louder than Joy or Sorrow, Strife or Sin.
Melodious axes ring
Beside the pier, music of steel on wood,
And merrily the brown-armed builders
sing,
Knowing their work is good.
The ship is all but done at last,
Strong for its first adventure with the vast !;
A giant pine tree true and straight,
Uprses one tall mast,
And now they slowly swing its mate
Beside it, and the tide is at the flood.
Again our boat ploughs up the olive brine
In one pale furrow, and again
The dolphin-craft, veering upon the vane,
Points seward, and we go,
Long gazing back, until the mountains grow
From out their verdure to one magic line
Of crumpled blue. Farewell, beloved place,
To be remembered, not for some brief space,
But even as a mothers face,
That time can never mar nor change,
Nor absence render strange.
Atlantic Monthly for July.