I

THE mare is pawing by the oak, The chaise is cool and wide For Peter Rugg the Bostonian With his little son beside; The women loiter at the wheels In the pleasant summer-tide.

“And when wilt thou be home, Father?” “And when, good husband, say: The cloud hangs heavy on the house What time thou art away.” He answers straight, he answers short, “At noon of the seventh day.”

“Fail not to come, if God so will, And the weather be kind and clear.” “Farewell, farewell! But who am I A blockhead rain to fear? God willing or God unwilling, I have said it, I will be here.”

He gathers up the sunburnt boy And from the gate is sped; He shakes the spark from the stones below, The bloom from overhead, Till the last roofs of his own town Pass in the morning-red.

Upon a homely mission North unto York he goes, Through the long highway broidered thick With elder-blow and rose; And sleeps in sound of breakers At every twilight’s close.

Intense upon his heedless head Frowns Agamenticus, Knowing of Heaven’s challenger The answer: even thus The Patience that is hid on high Doth stoop to master us.