The Hampton marshes to the sea
Stretch out a colored tapestry;
A woven, iridescent gleam,
Patterned with many a sea-filled stream,
Where dips the heron silently.
Above the Hampton meadows soar
Wisps of a quaint, forgotten lore,
Wild legends of another day,
Sea-born and salty, like the spray
Flung from the great tusks of the Boar.
And as I wander down the street
Of Hampton Town with loitering feet,
A fragrance breathes from gardens old,
Drawn from the centuries of mould,
Thyme, bleeding-heart, and bitter-sweet.
The ghosts of lovely ladies rise,
With terror in their haunted eyes;
Witches and redskins, soldiers grim;
Pirate and Puritan—oath and hymn—
All in a web whose threads I share.
The Hampton pines these legends know,
And gossip them in whispers low.
They spin an eerie charm that twines
About the lovely Place of Pines,
To blood that throbs from long ago.