Wild Roses of Cape Ann
by Lucy Larcom

Wild roses of Cape Ann! A rose is sweet, 
No matter where it grows ; and roses grow, 
Nursed by the pure heavens and the strengthening 
earth. 
Wherever men will let them. Every waste 
And solitary place is glad for them. 
Since the old prophet sang so, until now. 
But our wild roses, flavored with the sea, 
And colored by the salt winds and much sun 
To healthiest intensity of bloom, — 
We think the world has none so beautiful. 
Even from his serious height, the Puritan 
Stooped to their fragrance, and recorded them 
" Sweet single roses," maidens of the woods. 
The lovelier for their virgin singleness. 
And when good Winthrop with his white fleet came, 

Skirting the coast in June, they breathed on him, 
Mingling their scent with balsams of the pine. 
And strange wild odors of the wilderness : 
Their sweetness penetrated the true heart 
That waited in Old England, when he wrote 
" My love, this is an earthly Paradise ! " 

No Paradise, indeed ! the east wind's edge 
Too keenly cuts, albeit no sword of flame ! 
Yet have romantic fancies bloomed around 
This breezy promontory, ever since 
The Viking with the commonest of names 
Left there his Turkish heroine's memory. 
Calling it " Tragabigzanda." English tongues 
Relished not the huge mouthful ; and a son, 
Christening it for his mother, made Cape Anne 
Bloom with yet one more thought of womanhood. 

But never Orient princess, British queen, 
Left on this headland such wild blossoming 
Of romance dashed with pathos, — roses wet 
With briny spray, for dew drops, — as to-day 
Haunts the lone cottage of the fisherman, 
In hopes half-suffocated by despair, 
When the Old Salvages foam and gnash their teeth. 
And all the battered coast is vested with storms 
Down the long trend of Maine, to Labrador. 

Had Roger Conant, patriarch of the Cape, 
Who left the Pilgrims as they left the Church, 
To seek a fuller freedom than they gave, — 
Freedom to worship God in the ancient way. 
Clothing the spirit's heavenward flight with form, — 
Had Roger Conant, kindliest of men. 
One forethought of the flood of widow's tears 
Wherewith this headland would be drenched, — the 
sea 
Has no such bitter salt ! — had he once dreamed 
Of vessels wrecked by hundreds, amid shoals 
And fogs of dim Newfoundland, he had left 
Doughty Miles Standish an unchallenged claim 
To every inch of coast, from Annisquam 
To Marblehead. " What ? " said the Plymouth folk, 
'Shall Conant seize our fishing-grounds ? Shall he 
Who went out from us, being not of us. 
Take from our children's mouths their rightful food 
For strangers who might stay at home, unstarved, 
Unpersecuted ? What does Conant mean ? 
Let Standish see ! " The two met, face to face. 
Lion and lamb ; and first the lamb withdrew. 
And then the lion ; neither having found 
Food for a quarrel on these ledges bare. 
Standish sailed back to Plymouth ; Conant sought 
A quiet place, suiting a quiet man, 
Lived unassuming years, and fell asleep 
Among the green hills of Bass-River-Side. 

So Tragabigzanda washed her granite feet. 
Careless of rulers, in the eastern sea. 
But still the hardy huntsmen of the deep 
Clung to their rocky anchorage, and built 
Homes for themselves, like sea-fowl, in the clefts. 
And cabins grouped themselves in villages, 
And billows echoed back the Sabbath bells, 
And poetry bloomed out of barren crags, 
With life, and love, and sorrow, and strong faith. 
Like the rock-saxifrage, that seams the cliff. 
Through all denials of east wind, sleet, and frost, 
With while announcements of approaching spring : 
Or like the gold-and-crimson columbines 
That nod from crest and chasm, a merry crowd 
Of rustic damsels tricked with finery, 
Tossing their light heads in the sober air : 
For Nature tires of her own gloom, and Sport 
Laughs out through her solemnities, unchid. 

The sailor is the playmate of the wave 
That yawns to make a mouthful of him. Songs, 
Light love-songs youth and joy lilt everywhere. 
Catch sparkle from the sea, and echo back 
Mirth unto merriment, — spray tossed toward spray. 
Hark to the fisher, singing as he rocks, 
A mote upon the mighty ocean-swell !