Should you go to Centre-Harbor,
    As haply you some time may,
  Sailing up the Winnipisauke,
    From the hills of Alton Bay,—­

  Into the heart of the highlands,
    Into the north-wind free,
  Through the rising and vanishing islands,
    Over the mountain sea,—­

  To the little hamlet lying
    White in its mountain-fold,
  Asleep by the lake, and dreaming
    A dream that is never told,—­

  And in the Red Hill’s shadow
    Your pilgrim home you make,
  Where the chambers open to sunrise,
    The mountains and the lake,—­

  If the pleasant picture wearies,
    As the fairest sometimes will,
  And the weight of the hills lies on you,
    And the water is all too still,—­

  If in vain the peaks of Gunstock
    Redden with sunrise fire,
  And the sky and the purple mountains
    And the sunset islands tire,—­

  If you turn from the in-door thrumming
    And clatter of bowls without,
  And the folly that goes on its travels
    Bearing the city about,—­

  And the cares you left behind you
    Come hunting along your track,
  As Blue-Cap in German fable
    Rode on the traveller’s pack,—­

  Let me tell you a tender story
    Of one who is now no more,
  A tale to haunt like a spirit
    The Winnipisauke shore,—­

  Of one who was brave and gentle,
    And strong for manly strife,
  Riding with cheering and music
    Into the tourney of life.

  Faltering and falling midway
    In the Tempter’s subtle snare,
  The chains of an evil habit
    He bowed himself to bear.

  Over his fresh, young manhood
    The bestial veil was flung,—­
  The curse of the wine of Circe,
    The spell her weavers sung.

  Yearly did hill- and lake-side
    Their summer idyls frame;
  Alone in his darkened dwelling,
    He hid his face for shame.

  The music of life’s great marches
    Sounded for him in vain;
  The voices of human duty
    Smote on his ear like pain.

  In vain over island and water
    The curtains of sunset swung;
  In vain on the beautiful mountains
    The pictures of God were hung.

  The wretched years crept onward,
    Each sadder than the last;
  All the bloom of life fell from him,
    All the freshness and greenness passed.

  But deep in his heart forever
    And unprofaned he kept
  The love of his saintly Mother,
    Who in the grave-yard slept.

  His house had no pleasant pictures;
    Its comfortless walls were bare;
  But the riches of earth and ocean
    Could not purchase his Mother’s Chair,—­

  The old chair, quaintly carven,
    With oaken arms outspread,
  Whereby, in the long gone twilights,
    His childish prayers were said.