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PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. With pauses between, as if they were


Then tumult anon when the surf breaks A HEAP of bare and splintery crags glistening Tumbled about by lightning and frost, In the blackness where they wallow With rifts and chasnis and storm- about.

bleached jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost;

All this you would scarcely comprehend, No island, but rather the skeleton Should you see the isle on a sunny day; of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten Then it is simple enough in its way, one,

Two rocky bulges, one at each end, Where, æons ago, with half-shut eye, With a smaller bulge and a hollow beThe sluggish saurian crawled to die,

tween; Gasping under titanic ferns;

Patches of whortleberry and bay ; Ribs of rock that seaward jut,

Accidents of open green, Granite shoulders and boulders and Sprinkled with loose slabs square and snags,

gray, Round which, though the winds in Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few heaven be shut,

Unsocial thistles ; an elder or two, The nightmared ocean murmurs and Foamed over with blossoms white as yearns,

spray; Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and And on the whole island never a tree turns,

Save a score of sumachs, high as your And the dreary black sea-weed lolls and knee, Wags ;

That crouch in hollow's where they may, Only rock from shore to shore,

(The cellars where once stood a village, Only a moan through the bleak clefts men say,) blown,

Huddling for warmth, and never grew With sobs in the rists where the coarse Tall enough for a peep at the sea ; kelp shifts,

A general dazzle of open blue; Falling and lifting, tossing and dristing, A breeze always blowing and playing And under all a deer, dull roar,

rat-tat Dying and swelling, forevermore,

With the bow of the ribbon round your Rock and moan and roar alone, And the dread of some nameless thing A score of sheep that do nothing but unknown,

stare These make Appledore.

Up or down at you everywhere;

Three or four cattle that chew the cud These make Appledore by night: Lying about in a listless despair; Then there are monsters left and right; A medrick that makes you look overEvery rock is a different monster;

head All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, With short, sharp scream, as he sights When you waked at night because you screamed,

And, dropping straight and swift as There they lie for half a mile,

lead, Jumbled together in a pile,

Splits the water with sudden thud;And (though you know they never once This is Appledore by day.

stir), If you look long, they seem to be A common island, you will say; moving

But stay a moment: only climb Just as plainly as plain can be,

Up to the highest rock of the isle, Crushing and crowding, wading and Stand there alone for a little while, shoving

And with gentle approaches it growe Out into the awful sea,

sublime, Where you can hear them snort and Dilating slowly as you win spout

A sense from the silence to take it in.


his prey:

So wide the loneness, so lucid the air, O'er which, through color's dreamiest The granite beneath you so savagely grarles, bare,

The yellow sunbeams pause and creep! You well inight think you were looking Now pink it blooms, now glimmers gray, down

Now shadows to a filiny blue, From some sky-silenced mountain's Tries one, tries all, and will not stay, crown,

But flits from opal hue to hue, Whose far-down pines are wont to tear And runs through every tenderest range Locks of wool from the topmost cloud. Of change that seems not to be change, Only be sure you go alone,

So rare the sweep, so nice the art, For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud, That lays no stress on any part, And never yet has backward thrown But shifts and lingers and persuades; Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd; So soft that sum-brush in the west, To more than one was never shown That asks no costlier pigments' aids, That awful front, nor is it tit

But mingling knobs, flaws, angles, dints, That she, Cothuruus-shod, stand bowed Inditferent of worst or best, Until the self-approving pit

Enchants the cliff's with wraiths and Enjoy the gust of its own wit

hints In babbling plaudits cheaply loud ; And gracious preludings of tints, She hides her mountains and her sea Where all seems fixed, yet all evades, From the harriers of scenery,

And indetinably pervades Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle Perpetual movement with perpetual rest!

and bay, Mouthing and mumbling the dying day.

III. Trust me, 't is something to be cast Away northeast is Boone Island light; Face to face with one's Self at last, You might mistake it for a ship, To be taken out of the fuss and strife, Only it stands too plumb upright, The endless clatter of plate and knife, And like the others does not slip The bore of books and the bores of the Behind the sea's unstealy brink; street,

Though, if a cloud-sha le chance to dip From the singular mess we agree to call upon it a moment, 't will suddenly sink, Life,

Levelled and lost in the darkened main, Where that is best which the most fools | Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, vote is,

As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. And to be set down on one's own two On the mainland you see a misty camp feet

Of mountains pitched tumultuously: So nigh to the great warm heart of God, That one looning so long and large You almost seem to feel it beat

Is Saddleback, and that point you see Down froin the sunshine and up from Over yon low and rounded marge, the sod;

Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe To be compelled, as it were, to notice Laid over his breast, is Ossipee; All the beautiful changes and chances That shadow there may be Kearsarge ; Through which the landscape flits and That must be Great Haystack; I love glances,

these nanies, And to see how the face of common day Wherewith the lonely farmer tames Is written all over with tender histories, Nature to mute companionship When you study it that intenser way With his own mind's domestic mood, In which a lover looks at his mistress. And strives the surly world to clip

In the arms of familiar habitude. Till now you dreamed not what could 'T is well he could not contrive to make be done

A Saxon of Agamenticus : With a bit of rock and a ray of sun; He glowers there to the north of us, But look, how fade the lights and shades Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, Of keen bare edge and crevice deep! Unconvertibly savage, and scorus to How doubtfully it fades and failes,

take And glows again, yon craggy steep,

The white mau's baptism or his ways.

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Him first on shore the coaster divines O'er whose square front, a dream, no Through the early gray, and sees him more, shake

The steepened sand-stripes seem to pour, The morning mist from his scalp-lock A murmurless vision of cataract ; of pines;

You almost fancy you hear a roar, Him first the skipper makes out in the Fitful and faint from the distance wanwest,

dering; Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots trem. But 't is only the blind old ocean maun. ulous,

Plashing with orange the palpitant lines Raking the shingle to and fro,
Of mutable billow, crest after crest, Aimlessly clutching and letting go
And murmurs Agamenticus!

The kelp-haired sedges of Appledore,
As if it were the name of a saint. Slipping down with a sleepy forgetting,
But is that a mountain playing clond, And anon his ponderous shouldersetting,
Or a cloud playing mountain, just there, with a deep, hoarse pant against Apple-
so faint ?

dore. Look along over the low right shoulder Of Agamentiens into that crowd Or brassy thunderheads behind it; Eastward as far as the eye can see, Now you have caught it, but, ere you Still eastward, eastward, endlessly, are older

The sparkle and tremor of purple sea By half an hour, you will lose it and That rises before you, a flickering hill, find it

On and on to the shut of the sky, A score of times ; while you look 't is And beyond, you fancy it sloping until gone,

The same multitudinous throb and thril And, just as you ’ve given it up, anon That vibrate under your dizzy eye It is there again, till your weary eyes In ripples of orange and pink are sent Fancy they see it waver and rise, Where the poppied sails doze on the With its brother clouds; it is Agio- yard, chook,

And the clumsy junk and proa lie There if you seek not, and gone if you Sunk deep with precious woods and look,

nard, Ninety miles off as the eagle flies. Mid the palmy isles of the Orient.

Those leaning towers of clouded white But mountains make not all the shore On the farthest brink of doubtful ocean, The mainland shows to Appledore ;

That shorten and shorten out of sight, Eight miles the heaving water spreads

Yet seem on the selfsame spot to stay, To a long low coast with beaches and Receding with a motionless motion, heals

Fading to dubious films of gray, That run through unimagined mazes, Lost, dimly found, then vanished As the lights and shades and magical wholly, hazes

Will rise again, the great world under, Put them away or bring them near, First films, then towers, then liigliShimmering, sketched out for thirty heaped clouds, miles

Whose nearing outlines sharpen slowly Between two capes that waver like Into tall ships with cobweb shrouds, threads,

That fill long Mongol eyes with wonder, And sink in the ocean, and reappear,

Crushing the violet wave to spray Crunibled and melted to little isles, Past some low heailland of Cathay ;With filmy trees, that seem the mere What was that sigh which seemed so Half-fancies of drowsy atmosphere;

Dear, And see the beach there, where it is Chilling your fancy to the core ? Flat as a threshing-floor, beaten anil 'T is only the sad old sea you hear, packed

That seems to seek forevermore With the flashing fails of weariless Something it cannot find, and so,

Sighing, seeks on, and tells its woe How it lifts and looms to a precipice, To the pitiless breakers of Appledore.




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Then a mile or more of rushing sea,

And then the lighthouse slim and lone; How looks Appledore in a storm ? And whenever the weight of ocean is I have seen it when its crags seemed thrown frantic,

Full and fair on White Island head, Butting against the mail Atlantic, A great mist-jotun you will see When surgeon surge

would heap enorme, Lifting himself up silently Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, High and huge o'er the lighthouse top,

That lifted anıl lifted, and then let go | With hands of wavering spray outspread, A great white avalanche of thunder, Groping after the little tower,

A grinding, blinding, deafening ire That seems to shrink and shorten and Monadnock might have trembled under; cower, And the island, whose rock-roots pierce Till the monster's aims of a sudden drop, below

And silently and fruitlessly To where they are warmed with the He sinks again into the sea.

central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked, You, meanwhile, where drenched you As it seemed to plunge with a shudder stand, and thrill

Awaken once more to the rush and Right at the breast of the swooping hill,

And on the rock-point tighten your And to rise again snorting a cataract

hand, Of rage-froth from every cranny and As you turn and see a valley deep, ledge,

That was not there a moment before, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse Suck rattling down between you and a and deep,

heap And the next vast breaker curled its

Of toppling billow, whose instant fall edge,

Must sink the whole island once for Gathering itself for a mightier leap.


Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas North, east, and south there are reefs Feeling their way to you more and and breakers

niore ; You would never dream of in smooth If they once should clutch you high as weather,

the knees, That toss and gore the sea for acres, They would whirl you down like a sprig Bellowing and gnashing and snarling of kelp, together;

Beyond all reach of hope or help ; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, Änd such in a storm is Appledore. And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies,

VI. A row of pillars still and white, That glimmer, and then are out of | 'T is the sight of a lifetime to behold sight,

The great shorn sun as you see it now, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, Across eight miles of undulant gold While you crossed the gusty desert by That widens landward, weltered and night,

rolled, The long colonnades of Persepolis ; With freaks of shadow and crimson Look southward for White Island light, stains ; The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the To see the solid mountain brow

As it notches the disk, and gains and There is first a half-mile of tumult and gains fight,

Until there comes, you scarce know when, Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, A tremble of fire o'er the parted lips And surging bewilderment wild and Of cloud and mountain, which vanishes ; wide,

then Where the breakers struggle left and From the body of day the sun-soul right,


tide ;

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