Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JOHN ALDEN'S DREAM, by AMOS RUSSEL WELLS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JOHN ALDEN'S DREAM, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Down through the dewy woods from plymouth, the town of the pilgrims
Last Line: Came to the mullins farm and found the greeting of kindred.
Subject(s): Alden, John (1599-1687); Mullens, Priscilla; U.s. - Colonial Period; Mullins, Priscilla


Down through the dewy woods from Plymouth, the town of the Pilgrims,
Sturdily came John Alden, and close at his side Priscilla.
Still were they fair, for time had rested gently upon them.
Still were they young at heart, the more for the rearing of children.
Brave were their eyes and true, taught courage in many a trial.
Down by the Howland farm John Alden came with Priscilla,
Over the toilsome ridge they climbed with resolute footsteps,
On by the winding pathway the Indians followed for ages,
Glimpsing the blue of the bay and startling the partridge before them.
Joyful the face of Priscilla, and gladsome the long, hard journey,
For at the end was home, the Barnstable home of her girlhood,
All of the Mullins kin, and the scenes so fondly remembered;
Yes, and the very room where Alden had pleaded for Standish,
Pleaded with words for his chief but pleaded with eyes for another,
Till at the last she had ventured, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"
Still was a smile on her lips, the smile of merriest daring.
Brightly she looked at John Alden who trudged so stoutly beside her.
"Men are a stupid lot" -- thus to herself said Priscilla,
"But like the trunks of the trees, the forests were empty without them."

Down by the ponds they came, Long Pond and Bloody and Herring,
Pausing to feed on the berries, or watch a deer in a hollow,
Or see two neighboring trees that had grown securely together,
Rubbed and bruised by the storms till branch to branch was cemented.
"Thus by the storms of life, Priscilla," said Alden the thoughtful,
"We have been bound together, made one in our lives and our spirits."
So as the summer sun sank late in the westering heaven
And silence fell on the woodland with only a whippoorwill singing,
Lighted the two on the brink of this fairylike bowl in the forest,
Saw this basin of beauty, filled full of pine-trees and birches,
Hung with garlands of grapevines, cushioned with pine-leaves and mosses.
"Here will we rest, Priscilla," said Alden, "for long is the journey.
Here will we sleep till the morrow, secure in this sheltering hollow."

So with a murmur of prayer the Pilgrim husband and matron
Laid them quietly down on a couch a monarch might envy,
Soft with the weary miles, the stars for their bedroom tapers.
Through the short summer night the wandering winds from the ocean
Whispered a song of peace, and scattered fragrance around them.
Over the hill came the murmur of waves as they broke and receded,
Eagerly wooing the shore, and ever repulsed in their wooing.
Through the short summer night the heavens watchfully bending
Canopied in the hollow and made it a place of safety,
Sheltered the sleeping Pilgrims from all the foes of the darkness,
Guarded their slumber until the bay showed hints of the daybreak.
Then as the pearling of dawn gleamed tenderly in through the treetops,
And the tentative twitters of birds grew bold in their morning chorus,
Brightly Priscilla arose and smoothed her clustering tresses;
But Alden sat on the bank and gazed in a stupor around him,
Gazed like one in a trance, with eyes unseeing and vacant.

"What is the matter, John Alden?" Priscilla challenged him gayly.
"Are you in Plymouth still? Did you leave your senses behind you?"
Slowly, as one in a dream, John Alden answered Priscilla.
"Verily, wife, the night has been a marvel of strangeness.
Spirits are in this hollow, I know not of good or of evil.
Wife, I have seen such things since I laid my head on this blanket,
Mind and heart are confounded, I know not if I am still living."
Archly Priscilla pinched him. "What say you to that, John Alden?
You do not feel like a ghost, but like a muscular mortal."
Never a smile from Alden, but still with aspect unseeing,
Quite as a sleeper still, the Pilgrim spoke in the dawnlight.
"Wife, if it be a dream or strangest of truth, I know not.
Much have I seen this night that passes human believing,
Marvels that never were and wonders that never will be.
Much do I fear that a witch has cast her influence on me."
"Heaven forefend!" cried Priscilla, but Alden continued, unheeding:

"I was upon a road. It was black. It was broad. It was shining.
Down out of Plymouth it stretched along the way we have travelled.
Hard it seemed to my feet, yet soft where the sun lay on it.
There as I walked, behold! with howl and scream of a demon,
Splitting the shuddering air with whir of a thousand windmills,
Rushed on that long black path an indescribable monster.
Half it seemed a machine, and half a horrible dragon.
Hollow it seemed, a shell, and in it were hapless mortals,
Men and women and children, captured, the prey of the monster.
On it rushed, and its legs were wheels, and it shone like a beetle,
Glittered in armor of steel, and it screamed like a demon.
Then, as the beetle monster was whirring and flashing past me,
Sudden the air was cleft with a burst like the blast of a musket,
Bang! like the mighty blast of the musket of Captain Miles Standish.
Bang! and the monster stopped, most righteously shot in the vitals.
Then were its captives freed, and swarmed exulting around it,
Struck it revengeful blows, and tore a limb from its body,
Round, and much like a wheel, with a coil all helpless and flabby.
Yet as I watched, confused by a myriad meaningless motions,
Lo! the demon was whole! the monster snorted in anger,
Trembled in quivering life, drew back its captives within it,
Shrieked with a fiendish yell, and flew on northward to Plymouth.
Others hastened, pursuing, long lines of glittering dragons,
All with men in their bodies, and others flew in their faces,
Screamed in defiance, and veered, and madly rushed to the southward.
Ah! 'twas a fearful sight, and still I tremble within me."

"Calm yourself, John," said Priscilla; "remember our journeying hither,
Peaceful and quiet, and blest with the gentle balm of the forest.
Here is no hard, black stretch horrific with man-eating monsters,
No, nor ever will be, but beauty serene and enduring."

"That was not all, Priscilla; yea, that was but the beginning.
Speedily next I saw a narrow path rimmed with iron,
And on it a row of houses came rushing, crazily rocking,
Houses long, low, and narrow, and only the first had a chimney,
Houses full of great windows, and all of the windows held faces,
Men and women and children, and all of the faces were frowning.
Place all the houses of Plymouth arow in a frantic procession,
Hurtle them through the air with a torrent of smoke from the chimney,
Rumbling, and clanging, and screaming a warwhoop worse than the Indians' --
That was the sound that I heard and the sight that I saw in my terror.
Then as I watched them they stopped, and some of the pitiful people
Left them weary and hot, while others entered the houses;
Then with a jerk and a groan the strange processional village
Rumbled and clattered away and swiftly was lost in the distance."

"Have you a fever, John?" Priscilla anxiously asked him.
"Rank unreason is this, to rave of houses in motion."
Alden made never an answer, but hurried on with his story,
Eyes still staring ahead as seeing invisible horrors.

"Hard by the moving houses, Priscilla, I saw a great river
Flooding down to the ocean, as if our neighbors of Sandwich
Haply had finished at length the big canal they are digging.
Over it leaped a bridge, and while I was gazing it parted,
Halves of it slowly rising, and all of itself it lifted,
Living and moving and breathing, a new and terrible creature
Standing stiff in the air. But little I pondered the marvel,
For rounding a bend of the river another monster rushed at me,
Silent and vast and dread like the sweep of an awful destruction.
Boat-like, it was not a boat, for it had no masts and no canvas,
Yes, and a hundred boats would scarcely equal the creature.
Stately it swam along with fins that were under the water.
Flat was its back, and on it were thronging bevies of people,
More than the people of Plymouth, and Sandwich and Barnstable added.
Boldly the creature bore them, and steadily swimming onward
Carried them out of sight, to plunge with them into the ocean.
Ah! 'twas a horrible scene, so many doomed to destruction,
Hurried resistless away by a mighty and merciless monster!"
"Was it a whale?" cried Priscilla. "Far larger than whales," answered Alden.

"Surely," the dreamer continued, "I had a surfeit of wonders,
Yet they were only beginning, for far in the air above me
Came a dull thudding and tremble, and looking I saw to the southward,
Rapidly drawing nigh, a bird with majestic pinions,
Glimmering bright in the blue and soaring with never a wing-beat.
Steadily, swiftly on it came, unswerving, portentous,
Large as a thousand eagles and making an angry rattle,
Seeking its prey; and lo! as it swooped in a swing from the heavens,
I saw that it had a man, two men, and looking for others.
Fearful, I ran and hid, but those around me were bolder,
Gazed at the bird unabashed, and said it was going to Boston.
Never a pitying thought had they for the people of Boston,
Soon to be snatched away by that bird's irresistible talons."
"Did no one try to shoot it?" Priscilla asked him, and shuddered.
"No one. They waved and shouted and sought to frighten the creature,
Drive it away from themselves and let it prey upon Boston."
"Heartless wretches!" Priscilla cried angrily, "heartless and selfish!"

"Next," John Alden continued, "I found myself in a palace,
Lordly and very spacious, with windows of sheeted crystal,
Walls of glistening wood well smoothed and painted and polished,
Carpets and tables and chairs like the regal houses of England,
All not far from this hollow. And there in the heart of the palace
Found I a man at his worship, idolatrous, impious worship,
Bending his head in prayer before the crudest of idols,
Only a box on the wall, and his prayer was bold and ambitious:
'Boston!' he cried, 'Give me Boston!' and greedily raised the petition:
'Boston!' he urged, 'I want Boston!' and long he bowed to the idol,
Thumping the box in his ravings, and muttering wild imprecations.
Then at the last with a sigh he turned from his fruitless implorings.
'I can't get Boston!' he groaned." "'Tis so with all worship of idols,"
Murmured Priscilla the pious; but Alden, unheeding, continued:

"In another room of the palace I found another box idol.
Over it hovered a maiden attired in most marvellous garments,
Dainty and soft and fine and dyed with the hues of the rainbow,
Such as no loom ever fashioned; and she too bent at her idol,
Silent, but swaying her body and beating her foot on the carpet,
While from the box, the idol, burst forth an astounding clamor,
Singing and shouting and trumpets and viols and ear-splitting music,
Snarling the senses with sound and lashing the soul to confusion.
Thus the poor, silly maiden beat time to the chant of her idol.
Still in another room I saw another box idol
Drawn by a pole on a carpet. A woman worshipper drew it,
Drew it and pushed it unceasing, and out of the box came a humming
Like to a myriad bees, and wearily still the woman
Plodded up and down, and pushed the box idol before her."
"Thus forever with woman," Priscilla the sage interjected,
"Wearily plodding through life, and pushing some idol before her."

"One more marvel, Priscilla," said Alden, "I saw in the palace.
Bright and shining, complex with wheel and shuttle and needle,
Guided yet by a woman, I saw a skilful contrivance.
Two were the pieces of cloth the woman fed to the marvel,
Drawing them swiftly from it, and lo! they were sewed together."
"That I should like, John Alden," Priscilla owned with a dimple.
"Pray you, procure me one when next you travel to dreamland."

"Crowded the night has been, Priscilla, with wonders of magic.
Hazily now they lie in a jumble of curious fancies, --
Pictures that seemed to move as if they were living and breathing,
Tenuous towers that pulsed keen messages into the darkness,
Stoves that cooked without fuel, a light that lived in a bottle,
Rows upon rows of books, and printed paper so common
Piles of the priceless sheets were wastefully tossed to a bonfire."

"Yes, but, John, were the people you saw in this wonderful dreamland
Mortals like you and me, or were they a race of angels?"

"That is the puzzle, Priscilla. They lived in their mansions of splendor,
Girdled with power and glory and wrapped in the garments of beauty,
Yet were their faces worn and yet were they sadly harried,
Masters not of their marvels, but slaves and servitors of them."

"Then," Priscilla responded, "pray, what is the good of your dreaming?
What is the good of these wonders, impossible, wild, and fantastic?
Better we made our way, with no more fairyland nonsense,
Straight to Barnstable town, where people are peaceful and happy."

So Priscilla and Alden, climbing out of the hollow,
Took up their journey to Barnstable, through the awakening woodland,
Passing the Sandwich folk and bringing the news out of Plymouth,
Skirting the wide-flung marshes, and glimpsing the sea from the highlands,
She with a smile demure and jests well aimed at the dreamer,
He as in wonderland still, his eyes yet vacant with slumber,
Till at the end of the day John Alden and merry Priscilla
Came to the Mullins farm and found the greeting of kindred.





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