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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9560.txt b/9560.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4124c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/9560.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2834 @@ +Project Gutenberg EBook, The Vaudois Teacher, and Others by Whittier +From Volume I., The Works of Whittier: Narrative and Legendary Poems +#5 in our series by John Greenleaf Whittier + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + + +Title: Narrative and Legendary Poems: The Vaudois Teacher and Others + From Volume I., The Works of Whittier + +Author: John Greenleaf Whittier + +Release Date: Dec, 2005 [EBook #9560] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 2, 2003] + + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, VAUDOIS TEACHER *** + + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + + + + + + NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY + + POEMS + + BY + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + + +PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT + +The Standard Library Edition of Mr. Whittier's writings comprises his +poetical and prose works as re-arranged and thoroughly revised by +himself or with his cooperation. Mr. Whittier has supplied such +additional information regarding the subject and occasion of certain +poems as may be stated in brief head-notes, and this edition has been +much enriched by the poet's personal comment. So far as practicable the +dates of publication of the various articles have been given, and since +these were originally published soon after composition, the dates of +their first appearance have been taken as determining the time at which +they were written. At the request of the Publishers, Mr. Whittier has +allowed his early poems, discarded from previous collections, to be +placed, in the general order of their appearance, in an appendix to the +final volume of poems. By this means the present edition is made so +complete and retrospective that students of the poet's career will +always find the most abundant material for their purpose. The Publishers +congratulate themselves and the public that the careful attention which +Mr. Whittier has been able to give to this revision of his works has +resulted in so comprehensive and well-adjusted a collection. + +The portraits prefixed to the several volumes have been chosen with a +view to illustrating successive periods in the poet's life. The +original sources and dates are indicated in each case. + + + + +NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS + + +CONTENTS: + +THE VAUDOIS TEACHER +THE FEMALE MARTYR +EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND" +THE DEMON OF THE STUDY +THE FOUNTAIN +PENTUCKET +THE NORSEMEN +FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS +ST JOHN +THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON +THE EXILES +THE KNIGHT OF ST JOHN +CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK +THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD + +THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK + I. THE MERRIMAC + II. THE BASHABA + III. THE DAUGHTER + IV. THE WEDDING + V. THE NEW HOME + VI. AT PENNACOOK + VII. THE DEPARTURE + VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN + +BARCLAY OF URY +THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA +THE LEGEND OF ST MARK +KATHLEEN +THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE +THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS +TAULER +THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID +THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN +THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE +THE SYCAMORES +THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW +TELLING THE BEES +THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY +THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY + +MABEL MARTIN: A HARVEST IDYL + PROEM + I. THE RIVER VALLEY + II. THE HUSKING + III. THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER + IV. THE CHAMPION + V. IN THE SHADOW + VI. THE BETROTHAL + +THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL +THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR +THE PREACHER +THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA +MY PLAYMATE +COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION +AMY WENTWORTH +THE COUNTESS + +AMONG THE HILLS + PRELUDE + AMONG THE HILLS + +THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL +THE TWO RABBINS +NOREMBEGA +MIRIAM +MAUD MULLER +MARY GARVIN +THE RANGER +NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON +THE SISTERS +MARGUERITE +THE ROBIN + +THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM + INTRODUCTORY NOTE + PRELUDE + THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM + +KING VOLMER AND ELSIE +THE THREE BELLS +JOHN UNDERHILL +CONDUCTOR BRADLEY +THE WITCH OF WENHAM +KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS +IN THE "OLD SOUTH" +THE HENCHMAN +THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK +THE KHAN'S DEVIL +THE KING'S MISSIVE +VALUATION +RABBI ISHMAEL +THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE + +THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS + To H P S + THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS + +THE WISHING BRIDGE +HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER +ST GREGORY'S GUEST +CONTENTS +BIRCHBROOK MILL +THE TWO ELIZABETHS +REQUITAL +THE HOMESTEAD +HOW THE ROBIN CAME +BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS +THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN + +NOTES + + + +NOTE.-The portrait prefixed to this volume was etched by +S. A. Schoff, in 1888, after a painting by Bass Otis, a pupil of +Gilbert Stuart, made in the winter of 1836-1837. + + + + +PROEM + +I LOVE the old melodious lays +Which softly melt the ages through, +The songs of Spenser's golden days, +Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, +Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. + +Yet, vainly in my quiet hours +To breathe their marvellous notes I try; +I feel them, as the leaves and flowers +In silence feel the dewy showers, +And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. + +The rigor of a frozen clime, +The harshness of an untaught ear, +The jarring words of one whose rhyme +Beat often Labor's hurried time, +Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. + +Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, +No rounded art the lack supplies; +Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, +Or softer shades of Nature's face, +I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. + +Nor mine the seer-like power to show +The secrets of the heart and mind; +To drop the plummet-line below +Our common world of joy and woe, +A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. + +Yet here at least an earnest sense +Of human right and weal is shown; +A hate of tyranny intense, +And hearty in its vehemence, +As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. + +O Freedom! if to me belong +Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, +Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, +Still with a love as deep and strong +As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine. + +AMESBURY, 11th mo., 1847. + + + +INTRODUCTION + +The edition of my poems published in 1857 contained the following note +by way of preface:-- + +"In these volumes, for the first time, a complete collection of my +poetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know that +these scattered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but +regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that +attention to their revision and arrangement, which respect for the +opinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand. + +"That there are pieces in this collection which I would 'willingly let +die,' I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and I +must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as well as other sins. +There are others, intimately connected with the author's life and times, +which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which +they were written, and the events by which they were suggested. + +"The long poem of Mogg Megone was in a great measure composed in early +life; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such +as the writer would have chosen at any subsequent period." + +After a lapse of thirty years since the above was written, I have been +requested by my publishers to make some preparation for a new and +revised edition of my poems. I cannot flatter myself that I have added +much to the interest of the work beyond the correction of my own errors +and those of the press, with the addition of a few heretofore +unpublished pieces, and occasional notes of explanation which seemed +necessary. I have made an attempt to classify the poems under a few +general heads, and have transferred the long poem of Mogg Megone to the +Appendix, with other specimens of my earlier writings. I have endeavored +to affix the dates of composition or publication as far as possible. + +In looking over these poems I have not been unmindful of occasional +prosaic lines and verbal infelicities, but at this late day I have +neither strength nor patience to undertake their correction. + +Perhaps a word of explanation may be needed in regard to a class of +poems written between the years 1832 and 1865. Of their defects from an +artistic point of view it is not necessary to speak. They were the +earnest and often vehement expression of the writer's thought and +feeling at critical periods in the great conflict between Freedom and +Slavery. They were written with no expectation that they would survive +the occasions which called them forth: they were protests, alarm +signals, trumpet-calls to action, words wrung from the writer's heart, +forged at white heat, and of course lacking the finish and careful +word-selection which reflection and patient brooding over them might +have given. Such as they are, they belong to the history of the +Anti-Slavery movement, and may serve as way-marks of its progress. If +their language at times seems severe and harsh, the monstrous wrong of +Slavery which provoked it must be its excuse, if any is needed. In +attacking it, we did not measure our words. "It is," said Garrison, +"a waste of politeness to be courteous to the devil." But in truth the +contest was, in a great measure, an impersonal one,--hatred of slavery +and not of slave-masters. + + "No common wrong provoked our zeal, + The silken gauntlet which is thrown + In such a quarrel rings like steel." + +Even Thomas Jefferson, in his terrible denunciation of Slavery in the +Notes on Virginia, says "It is impossible to be temperate and pursue the +subject of Slavery." After the great contest was over, no class of the +American people were more ready, with kind words and deprecation of +harsh retaliation, to welcome back the revolted States than the +Abolitionists; and none have since more heartily rejoiced at the fast +increasing prosperity of the South. + +Grateful for the measure of favor which has been accorded to my +writings, I leave this edition with the public. It contains all that I +care to re-publish, and some things which, had the matter of choice been +left solely to myself, I should have omitted. + J. G. W. + + + + + +NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS + +THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. + +This poem was suggested by the account given of the manner which the +Waldenses disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry. They +gained access to the house through their occupation as peddlers of +silks, jewels, and trinkets. "Having disposed of some of their goods," +it is said by a writer who quotes the inquisitor Rainerus Sacco, "they +cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than +these, inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be +protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible +or Testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy." The poem, +under the title Le Colporteur Vaudois, was translated into French by +Professor G. de Felice, of Montauban, and further naturalized by +Professor Alexandre Rodolphe Vinet, who quoted it in his lectures on +French literature, afterwards published. It became familiar in this form +to the Waldenses, who adopted it as a household poem. An American +clergyman, J. C. Fletcher, frequently heard it when he was a student, +about the year 1850, in the theological seminary at Geneva, Switzerland, +but the authorship of the poem was unknown to those who used it. +Twenty-five years later, Mr. Fletcher, learning the name of the author, +wrote to the moderator of the Waldensian synod at La Tour, giving the +information. At the banquet which closed the meeting of the synod, the +moderator announced the fact, and was instructed in the name of the +Waldensian church to write to me a letter of thanks. My letter, written +in reply, was translated into Italian and printed throughout Italy. + +"O LADY fair, these silks of mine + are beautiful and rare,-- +The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's + queen might wear; +And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose + radiant light they vie; +I have brought them with me a weary way,--will my + gentle lady buy?" + +The lady smiled on the worn old man through the + dark and clustering curls +Which veiled her brow, as she bent to view his + silks and glittering pearls; +And she placed their price in the old man's hand + and lightly turned away, +But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call,-- + "My gentle lady, stay! + +"O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer + lustre flings, +Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on + the lofty brow of kings; +A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue + shall not decay, +Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a + blessing on thy way!" + +The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her + form of grace was seen, +Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks + waved their clasping pearls between; +"Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou + traveller gray and old, +And name the price of thy precious gem, and my + page shall count thy gold." + +The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a + small and meagre book, +Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his + folding robe he took! +"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove + as such to thee +Nay, keep thy gold--I ask it not, for the word of + God is free!" + +The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he + left behind +Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high- + born maiden's mind, +And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the + lowliness of truth, +And given her human heart to God in its beautiful + hour of youth + +And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil + faith had power, +The courtly knights of her father's train, and the + maidens of her bower; +And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly + feet untrod, +Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the + perfect love of God! +1830. + + + + +THE FEMALE MARTYR. + +Mary G-----, aged eighteen, a "Sister of Charity," died in one of our +Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while +in voluntary attendance upon the sick. + + +"BRING out your dead!" The midnight street +Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; +Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, +Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, +Her coffin and her pall. +"What--only one!" the brutal hack-man said, +As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. + +How sunk the inmost hearts of all, +As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, +With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall! +The dying turned him to the wall, +To hear it and to die! +Onward it rolled; while oft its driver stayed, +And hoarsely clamored, "Ho! bring out your dead." + +It paused beside the burial-place; +"Toss in your load!" and it was done. +With quick hand and averted face, +Hastily to the grave's embrace +They cast them, one by one, +Stranger and friend, the evil and the just, +Together trodden in the churchyard dust. + +And thou, young martyr! thou wast there; +No white-robed sisters round thee trod, +Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer +Rose through the damp and noisome air, +Giving thee to thy God; +Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave +Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave! + +Yet, gentle sufferer! there shall be, +In every heart of kindly feeling, +A rite as holy paid to thee +As if beneath the convent-tree +Thy sisterhood were kneeling, +At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping +Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. + +For thou wast one in whom the light +Of Heaven's own love was kindled well; +Enduring with a martyr's might, +Through weary day and wakeful night, +Far more than words may tell +Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown, +Thy mercies measured by thy God alone! + +Where manly hearts were failing, where +The throngful street grew foul with death, +O high-souled martyr! thou wast there, +Inhaling, from the loathsome air, +Poison with every breath. +Yet shrinking not from offices of dread +For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead. + +And, where the sickly taper shed +Its light through vapors, damp, confined, +Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, +A new Electra by the bed +Of suffering human-kind! +Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, +To that pure hope which fadeth not away. + +Innocent teacher of the high +And holy mysteries of Heaven! +How turned to thee each glazing eye, +In mute and awful sympathy, +As thy low prayers were given; +And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, +An angel's features, a deliverer's smile! + +A blessed task! and worthy one +Who, turning from the world, as thou, +Before life's pathway had begun +To leave its spring-time flower and sun, +Had sealed her early vow; +Giving to God her beauty and her youth, +Her pure affections and her guileless truth. + +Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here +Could be for thee a meet reward; +Thine is a treasure far more dear +Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear +Of living mortal heard +The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, +The holy presence of Eternal Love! + +Sleep on in peace. The earth has not +A nobler name than thine shall be. +The deeds by martial manhood wrought, +The lofty energies of thought, +The fire of poesy, +These have but frail and fading honors; thine +Shall Time unto Eternity consign. + +Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, +And human pride and grandeur fall, +The herald's line of long renown, +The mitre and the kingly crown,-- +Perishing glories all! +The pure devotion of thy generous heart +Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. +1833. + + + + +EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND." +(Originally a part of the author's Moll Pitcher.) + +How has New England's romance fled, +Even as a vision of the morning! +Its rites foredone, its guardians dead, +Its priestesses, bereft of dread, +Waking the veriest urchin's scorning! +Gone like the Indian wizard's yell +And fire-dance round the magic rock, +Forgotten like the Druid's spell +At moonrise by his holy oak! +No more along the shadowy glen +Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men; +No more the unquiet churchyard dead +Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, +Startling the traveller, late and lone; +As, on some night of starless weather, +They silently commune together, +Each sitting on his own head-stone +The roofless house, decayed, deserted, +Its living tenants all departed, +No longer rings with midnight revel +Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil; +No pale blue flame sends out its flashes +Through creviced roof and shattered sashes! +The witch-grass round the hazel spring +May sharply to the night-air sing, +But there no more shall withered hags +Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, +Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters +As beverage meet for Satan's daughters; +No more their mimic tones be heard, +The mew of cat, the chirp of bird, +Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter +Of the fell demon following after! +The cautious goodman nails no more +A horseshoe on his outer door, +Lest some unseemly hag should fit +To his own mouth her bridle-bit; +The goodwife's churn no more refuses +Its wonted culinary uses +Until, with heated needle burned, +The witch has to her place returned! +Our witches are no longer old +And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, +But young and gay and laughing creatures, +With the heart's sunshine on their features; +Their sorcery--the light which dances +Where the raised lid unveils its glances; +Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, +The music of Love's twilight hours, +Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan +Above her nightly closing flowers, +Sweeter than that which sighed of yore +Along the charmed Ausonian shore! +Even she, our own weird heroine, +Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn,' +Sleeps calmly where the living laid her; +And the wide realm of sorcery, +Left by its latest mistress free, +Hath found no gray and skilled invader. +So--perished Albion's "glammarye," +With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, +His charmed torch beside his knee, +That even the dead himself might see +The magic scroll within his keeping. +And now our modern Yankee sees +Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries; +And naught above, below, around, +Of life or death, of sight or sound, +Whate'er its nature, form, or look, +Excites his terror or surprise, +All seeming to his knowing eyes +Familiar as his "catechise," +Or "Webster's Spelling-Book." +1833. + + + + +THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. + +THE Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, +And eats his meat and drinks his ale, +And beats the maid with her unused broom, +And the lazy lout with his idle flail; +But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn, +And hies him away ere the break of dawn. + +The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, +And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, +The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, +Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, +And the devil of Martin Luther sat +By the stout monk's side in social chat. + +The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him +Who seven times crossed the deep, +Twined closely each lean and withered limb, +Like the nightmare in one's sleep. +But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast +The evil weight from his back at last. + +But the demon that cometh day by day +To my quiet room and fireside nook, +Where the casement light falls dim and gray +On faded painting and ancient book, +Is a sorrier one than any whose names +Are chronicled well by good King James. + +No bearer of burdens like Caliban, +No runner of errands like Ariel, +He comes in the shape of a fat old man, +Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell; +And whence he comes, or whither he goes, +I know as I do of the wind which blows. + +A stout old man with a greasy hat +Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, +And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, +Looking through glasses with iron bows. +Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, +Guard well your doors from that old man! + +He comes with a careless "How d' ye do?" +And seats himself in my elbow-chair; +And my morning paper and pamphlet new +Fall forthwith under his special care, +And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, +And, button by button, unfolds his coat. + +And then he reads from paper and book, +In a low and husky asthmatic tone, +With the stolid sameness of posture and look +Of one who reads to himself alone; +And hour after hour on my senses come +That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. + +The price of stocks, the auction sales, +The poet's song and the lover's glee, +The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, +The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit, +All reach my ear in the self-same tone,-- +I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! + +Oh, sweet as the lapse of water at noon +O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, +The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, +Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, +Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems +To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, + +So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone, +Of her in whose features I sometimes look, +As I sit at eve by her side alone, +And we read by turns, from the self-same book, +Some tale perhaps of the olden time, +Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. + +Then when the story is one of woe,-- +Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, +Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low +Her voice sinks down like a moan afar; +And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, +And his face looks on me worn and pale. + +And when she reads some merrier song, +Her voice is glad as an April bird's, +And when the tale is of war and wrong, +A trumpet's summons is in her words, +And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, +And see the tossing of plume and spear! + +Oh, pity me then, when, day by day, +The stout fiend darkens my parlor door; +And reads me perchance the self-same lay +Which melted in music, the night before, +From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, +And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! + +I cross my floor with a nervous tread, +I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, +I flourish my cane above his head, +And stir up the fire to roast him out; +I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane, +And press my hands on my ears, in vain! + +I've studied Glanville and James the wise, +And wizard black-letter tomes which treat +Of demons of every name and size +Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, +But never a hint and never a line +Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. + +I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, +And laid the Primer above them all, +I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate, +And hung a wig to my parlor wall +Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, +At Salem court in the witchcraft day! + +"Conjuro te, sceleratissime, +Abire ad tuum locum!"--still +Like a visible nightmare he sits by me,-- +The exorcism has lost its skill; +And I hear again in my haunted room +The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum! + +Ah! commend me to Mary Magdalen +With her sevenfold plagues, to the wandering Jew, +To the terrors which haunted Orestes when +The furies his midnight curtains drew, +But charm him off, ye who charm him can, +That reading demon, that fat old man! +1835. + + + + +THE FOUNTAIN. + +On the declivity of a hill in Salisbury, Essex County, is a fountain of +clear water, gushing from the very roots of a venerable oak. It is about +two miles from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimac. + +TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling +By the swift Powow, +With the summer sunshine falling +On thy heated brow, +Listen, while all else is still, +To the brooklet from the hill. + +Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing +By that streamlet's side, +And a greener verdure showing +Where its waters glide, +Down the hill-slope murmuring on, +Over root and mossy stone. + +Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth +O'er the sloping hill, +Beautiful and freshly springeth +That soft-flowing rill, +Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, +Gushing up to sun and air. + +Brighter waters sparkled never +In that magic well, +Of whose gift of life forever +Ancient legends tell, +In the lonely desert wasted, +And by mortal lip untasted. + +Waters which the proud Castilian +Sought with longing eyes, +Underneath the bright pavilion +Of the Indian skies, +Where his forest pathway lay +Through the blooms of Florida. + +Years ago a lonely stranger, +With the dusky brow +Of the outcast forest-ranger, +Crossed the swift Powow, +And betook him to the rill +And the oak upon the hill. + +O'er his face of moody sadness +For an instant shone +Something like a gleam of gladness, +As he stooped him down +To the fountain's grassy side, +And his eager thirst supplied. + +With the oak its shadow throwing +O'er his mossy seat, +And the cool, sweet waters flowing +Softly at his feet, +Closely by the fountain's rim +That lone Indian seated him. + +Autumn's earliest frost had given +To the woods below +Hues of beauty, such as heaven +Lendeth to its bow; +And the soft breeze from the west +Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. + +Far behind was Ocean striving +With his chains of sand; +Southward, sunny glimpses giving, +'Twixt the swells of land, +Of its calm and silvery track, +Rolled the tranquil Merrimac. + +Over village, wood, and meadow +Gazed that stranger man, +Sadly, till the twilight shadow +Over all things ran, +Save where spire and westward pane +Flashed the sunset back again. + +Gazing thus upon the dwelling +Of his warrior sires, +Where no lingering trace was telling +Of their wigwam fires, +Who the gloomy thoughts might know +Of that wandering child of woe? + +Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, +Hills that once had stood +Down their sides the shadows throwing +Of a mighty wood, +Where the deer his covert kept, +And the eagle's pinion swept! + +Where the birch canoe had glided +Down the swift Powow, +Dark and gloomy bridges strided +Those clear waters now; +And where once the beaver swam, +Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam. + +For the wood-bird's merry singing, +And the hunter's cheer, +Iron clang and hammer's ringing +Smote upon his ear; +And the thick and sullen smoke +From the blackened forges broke. + +Could it be his fathers ever +Loved to linger here? +These bare hills, this conquered river,-- +Could they hold them dear, +With their native loveliness +Tamed and tortured into this? + +Sadly, as the shades of even +Gathered o'er the hill, +While the western half of heaven +Blushed with sunset still, +From the fountain's mossy seat +Turned the Indian's weary feet. + +Year on year hath flown forever, +But he came no more +To the hillside on the river +Where he came before. +But the villager can tell +Of that strange man's visit well. + +And the merry children, laden +With their fruits or flowers, +Roving boy and laughing maiden, +In their school-day hours, +Love the simple tale to tell +Of the Indian and his well. +1837 + + + + +PENTUCKET. + +The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the Indians +Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier town, and during +thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year +1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De +Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the famous and bloody sacker of +Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained +only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still +larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, among +them Hertel de Rouville. The minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was +killed by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled The Border +War of 1708, published in my collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, +I have given a prose narrative of the surprise of Haverhill. + + +How sweetly on the wood-girt town +The mellow light of sunset shone! +Each small, bright lake, whose waters still +Mirror the forest and the hill, +Reflected from its waveless breast +The beauty of a cloudless west, +Glorious as if a glimpse were given +Within the western gates of heaven, +Left, by the spirit of the star +Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! + +Beside the river's tranquil flood +The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, +Where many a rood of open land +Stretched up and down on either hand, +With corn-leaves waving freshly green +The thick and blackened stumps between. +Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, +The wild, untravelled forest spread, +Back to those mountains, white and cold, +Of which the Indian trapper told, +Upon whose summits never yet +Was mortal foot in safety set. + +Quiet and calm without a fear, +Of danger darkly lurking near, +The weary laborer left his plough, +The milkmaid carolled by her cow; +From cottage door and household hearth +Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. + +At length the murmur died away, +And silence on that village lay. +--So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, +Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, +Undreaming of the fiery fate +Which made its dwellings desolate. + +Hours passed away. By moonlight sped +The Merrimac along his bed. +Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood +Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, +Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, +As the hushed grouping of a dream. +Yet on the still air crept a sound, +No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound, +Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing, +Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. + +Was that the tread of many feet, +Which downward from the hillside beat? +What forms were those which darkly stood +Just on the margin of the wood?-- +Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, +Or paling rude, or leafless limb? +No,--through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed, +Dark human forms in moonshine showed, +Wild from their native wilderness, +With painted limbs and battle-dress. + +A yell the dead might wake to hear +Swelled on the night air, far and clear; +Then smote the Indian tomahawk +On crashing door and shattering lock; + +Then rang the rifle-shot, and then +The shrill death-scream of stricken men,-- +Sank the red axe in woman's brain, +And childhood's cry arose in vain. +Bursting through roof and window came, +Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame, +And blended fire and moonlight glared +On still dead men and scalp-knives bared. + +The morning sun looked brightly through +The river willows, wet with dew. +No sound of combat filled the air, +No shout was heard, nor gunshot there; +Yet still the thick and sullen smoke +From smouldering ruins slowly broke; +And on the greensward many a stain, +And, here and there, the mangled slain, +Told how that midnight bolt had sped +Pentucket, on thy fated head. + +Even now the villager can tell +Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, +Still show the door of wasting oak, +Through which the fatal death-shot broke, +And point the curious stranger where +De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare; +Whose hideous head, in death still feared, +Bore not a trace of hair or beard; +And still, within the churchyard ground, +Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, +Whose grass-grown surface overlies +The victims of that sacrifice. +1838. + + + + +THE NORSEMEN. + +In the early part of the present century, a fragment of a statue, rudely +chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on +the Merrimac. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact +that the ancient Northmen visited the north-east coast of North America +and probably New England, some centuries before the discovery of the +western world by Columbus, is very generally admitted. + +GIFT from the cold and silent Past! +A relic to the present cast, +Left on the ever-changing strand +Of shifting and unstable sand, +Which wastes beneath the steady chime +And beating of the waves of Time! +Who from its bed of primal rock +First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block? +Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, +Thy rude and savage outline wrought? + +The waters of my native stream +Are glancing in the sun's warm beam; +From sail-urged keel and flashing oar +The circles widen to its shore; +And cultured field and peopled town +Slope to its willowed margin down. +Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing +The home-life sound of school-bells ringing, +And rolling wheel, and rapid jar +Of the fire-winged and steedless car, +And voices from the wayside near +Come quick and blended on my ear,-- +A spell is in this old gray stone, +My thoughts are with the Past alone! + +A change!--The steepled town no more +Stretches along the sail-thronged shore; +Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, +Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud +Spectrally rising where they stood, +I see the old, primeval wood; +Dark, shadow-like, on either hand +I see its solemn waste expand; +It climbs the green and cultured hill, +It arches o'er the valley's rill, +And leans from cliff and crag to throw +Its wild arms o'er the stream below. +Unchanged, alone, the same bright river +Flows on, as it will flow forever +I listen, and I hear the low +Soft ripple where its waters go; +I hear behind the panther's cry, +The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by, +And shyly on the river's brink +The deer is stooping down to drink. + +But hark!--from wood and rock flung back, +What sound comes up the Merrimac? +What sea-worn barks are those which throw +The light spray from each rushing prow? +Have they not in the North Sea's blast +Bowed to the waves the straining mast? +Their frozen sails the low, pale sun +Of Thule's night has shone upon; +Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep +Round icy drift, and headland steep. +Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters +Have watched them fading o'er the waters, +Lessening through driving mist and spray, +Like white-winged sea-birds on their way! + +Onward they glide,--and now I view +Their iron-armed and stalwart crew; +Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, +Turned to green earth and summer sky. +Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside +Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide; +Bared to the sun and soft warm air, +Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. +I see the gleam of axe and spear, +The sound of smitten shields I hear, +Keeping a harsh and fitting time +To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme; +Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, +His gray and naked isles among; +Or muttered low at midnight hour +Round Odin's mossy stone of power. +The wolf beneath the Arctic moon +Has answered to that startling rune; +The Gael has heard its stormy swell, +The light Frank knows its summons well; +Iona's sable-stoled Culdee +Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, +And swept, with hoary beard and hair, +His altar's foot in trembling prayer. + +'T is past,--the 'wildering vision dies +In darkness on my dreaming eyes +The forest vanishes in air, +Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare; +I hear the common tread of men, +And hum of work-day life again; + +The mystic relic seems alone +A broken mass of common stone; +And if it be the chiselled limb +Of Berserker or idol grim, +A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, +The stormy Viking's god of War, +Or Praga of the Runic lay, +Or love-awakening Siona, +I know not,--for no graven line, +Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, +Is left me here, by which to trace +Its name, or origin, or place. +Yet, for this vision of the Past, +This glance upon its darkness cast, +My spirit bows in gratitude +Before the Giver of all good, +Who fashioned so the human mind, +That, from the waste of Time behind, +A simple stone, or mound of earth, +Can summon the departed forth; +Quicken the Past to life again, +The Present lose in what hath been, +And in their primal freshness show +The buried forms of long ago. +As if a portion of that Thought +By which the Eternal will is wrought, +Whose impulse fills anew with breath +The frozen solitude of Death, +To mortal mind were sometimes lent, +To mortal musings sometimes sent, +To whisper-even when it seems +But Memory's fantasy of dreams-- +Through the mind's waste of woe and sin, +Of an immortal origin! +1841. + + + + +FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. + +Polan, chief of the Sokokis Indians of the country between Agamenticus +and Casco Bay, was killed at Windham on Sebago Lake in the spring of +1756. After the whites had retired, the surviving Indians "swayed" or +bent down a young tree until its roots were upturned, placed the body of +their chief beneath it, then released the tree, which, in springing back +to its old position, covered the grave. The Sokokis were early converts +to the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed +to the French settlements on the St. Francois. + +AROUND Sebago's lonely lake +There lingers not a breeze to break +The mirror which its waters make. + +The solemn pines along its shore, +The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, +Are painted on its glassy floor. + +The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, +The snowy mountain-tops which lie +Piled coldly up against the sky. + +Dazzling and white! save where the bleak, +Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, +Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. + +Yet green are Saco's banks below, +And belts of spruce and cedar show, +Dark fringing round those cones of snow. + +The earth hath felt the breath of spring, +Though yet on her deliverer's wing +The lingering frosts of winter cling. + +Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, +And mildly from its sunny nooks +The blue eye of the violet looks. + +And odors from the springing grass, +The sweet birch and the sassafras, +Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. + +Her tokens of renewing care +Hath Nature scattered everywhere, +In bud and flower, and warmer air. + +But in their hour of bitterness, +What reek the broken Sokokis, +Beside their slaughtered chief, of this? + +The turf's red stain is yet undried, +Scarce have the death-shot echoes died +Along Sebago's wooded side; + +And silent now the hunters stand, +Grouped darkly, where a swell of land +Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. + +Fire and the axe have swept it bare, +Save one lone beech, unclosing there +Its light leaves in the vernal air. + +With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, +They break the damp turf at its foot, +And bare its coiled and twisted root. + +They heave the stubborn trunk aside, +The firm roots from the earth divide,-- +The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. + +And there the fallen chief is laid, +In tasselled garb of skins arrayed, +And girded with his wampum-braid. + +The silver cross he loved is pressed +Beneath the heavy arms, which rest +Upon his scarred and naked breast. + +'T is done: the roots are backward sent, +The beechen-tree stands up unbent, +The Indian's fitting monument! + +When of that sleeper's broken race +Their green and pleasant dwelling-place, +Which knew them once, retains no trace; + +Oh, long may sunset's light be shed +As now upon that beech's head, +A green memorial of the dead! + +There shall his fitting requiem be, +In northern winds, that, cold and free, +Howl nightly in that funeral tree. + +To their wild wail the waves which break +Forever round that lonely lake +A solemn undertone shall make! + +And who shall deem the spot unblest, +Where Nature's younger children rest, +Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast? + +Deem ye that mother loveth less +These bronzed forms of the wilderness +She foldeth in her long caress? + +As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow, +As if with fairer hair and brow +The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. + +What though the places of their rest +No priestly knee hath ever pressed,-- +No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed? + +What though the bigot's ban be there, +And thoughts of wailing and despair, +And cursing in the place of prayer. + +Yet Heaven hath angels watching round +The Indian's lowliest forest-mound,-- +And they have made it holy ground. + +There ceases man's frail judgment; all +His powerless bolts of cursing fall +Unheeded on that grassy pall. + +O peeled and hunted and reviled, +Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! +Great Nature owns her simple child! + +And Nature's God, to whom alone +The secret of the heart is known,-- +The hidden language traced thereon; + +Who from its many cumberings +Of form and creed, and outward things, +To light the naked spirit brings; + +Not with our partial eye shall scan, +Not with our pride and scorn shall ban, +The spirit of our brother man! +1841. + + + + +ST. JOHN. + +The fierce rivalry between Charles de La Tour, a Protestant, and +D'Aulnay Charnasy, a Catholic, for the possession of Acadia, forms one +of the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. La Tour +received aid in several instances from the Puritan colony of +Massachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining +arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was +attacked by D'Aulnay, and successfully defended by its high-spirited +mistress. A second attack however followed in the fourth month, 1647, +when D'Aulnay was successful, and the garrison was put to the sword. +Lady La Tour languished a few days in the hands of her enemy, and then +died of grief. + +"To the winds give our banner! +Bear homeward again!" +Cried the Lord of Acadia, +Cried Charles of Estienne; +From the prow of his shallop +He gazed, as the sun, +From its bed in the ocean, +Streamed up the St. John. + +O'er the blue western waters +That shallop had passed, +Where the mists of Penobscot +Clung damp on her mast. +St. Saviour had looked +On the heretic sail, +As the songs of the Huguenot +Rose on the gale. + +The pale, ghostly fathers +Remembered her well, +And had cursed her while passing, +With taper and bell; +But the men of Monhegan, +Of Papists abhorred, +Had welcomed and feasted +The heretic Lord. + +They had loaded his shallop +With dun-fish and ball, +With stores for his larder, +And steel for his wall. +Pemaquid, from her bastions +And turrets of stone, +Had welcomed his coming +With banner and gun. + +And the prayers of the elders +Had followed his way, +As homeward he glided, +Down Pentecost Bay. +Oh, well sped La Tour +For, in peril and pain, +His lady kept watch, +For his coming again. + +O'er the Isle of the Pheasant +The morning sun shone, +On the plane-trees which shaded +The shores of St. John. +"Now, why from yon battlements +Speaks not my love! +Why waves there no banner +My fortress above?" + +Dark and wild, from his deck +St. Estienne gazed about, +On fire-wasted dwellings, +And silent redoubt; +From the low, shattered walls +Which the flame had o'errun, +There floated no banner, +There thundered no gun! + +But beneath the low arch +Of its doorway there stood +A pale priest of Rome, +In his cloak and his hood. +With the bound of a lion, +La Tour sprang to land, +On the throat of the Papist +He fastened his hand. + +"Speak, son of the Woman +Of scarlet and sin! +What wolf has been prowling +My castle within?" +From the grasp of the soldier +The Jesuit broke, +Half in scorn, half in sorrow, +He smiled as he spoke: + +"No wolf, Lord of Estienne, +Has ravaged thy hall, +But thy red-handed rival, +With fire, steel, and ball! +On an errand of mercy +I hitherward came, +While the walls of thy castle +Yet spouted with flame. + +"Pentagoet's dark vessels +Were moored in the bay, +Grim sea-lions, roaring +Aloud for their prey." +"But what of my lady?" +Cried Charles of Estienne. +"On the shot-crumbled turret +Thy lady was seen: + +"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, +Her hand grasped thy pennon, +While her dark tresses swayed +In the hot breath of cannon! +But woe to the heretic, +Evermore woe! +When the son of the church +And the cross is his foe! + +"In the track of the shell, +In the path of the ball, +Pentagoet swept over +The breach of the wall! +Steel to steel, gun to gun, +One moment,--and then +Alone stood the victor, +Alone with his men! + +"Of its sturdy defenders, +Thy lady alone +Saw the cross-blazoned banner +Float over St. John." +"Let the dastard look to it!" +Cried fiery Estienne, +"Were D'Aulnay King Louis, +I'd free her again!" + +"Alas for thy lady! +No service from thee +Is needed by her +Whom the Lord hath set free; +Nine days, in stern silence, +Her thraldom she bore, +But the tenth morning came, +And Death opened her door!" + +As if suddenly smitten +La Tour staggered back; +His hand grasped his sword-hilt, +His forehead grew black. +He sprang on the deck +Of his shallop again. +"We cruise now for vengeance! +Give way!" cried Estienne. + +"Massachusetts shall hear +Of the Huguenot's wrong, +And from island and creekside +Her fishers shall throng! +Pentagoet shall rue +What his Papists have done, +When his palisades echo +The Puritan's gun!" + +Oh, the loveliest of heavens +Hung tenderly o'er him, +There were waves in the sunshine, +And green isles before him: +But a pale hand was beckoning +The Huguenot on; +And in blackness and ashes +Behind was St. John! +1841 + + + + +THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. + +Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth +century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by +the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain +intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was +restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several +venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the +tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf. + +THEY sat in silent watchfulness +The sacred cypress-tree about, +And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, +Their failing eyes looked out. + +Gray Age and Sickness waiting there +Through weary night and lingering day,-- +Grim as the idols at their side, +And motionless as they. + +Unheeded in the boughs above +The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; +Unseen of them the island flowers +Bloomed brightly at their feet. + +O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, +The thunder crashed on rock and hill; +The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, +Yet there they waited still! + +What was the world without to them? +The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance +Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam +Of battle-flag and lance? + +They waited for that falling leaf +Of which the wandering Jogees sing: +Which lends once more to wintry age +The greenness of its spring. + +Oh, if these poor and blinded ones +In trustful patience wait to feel +O'er torpid pulse and failing limb +A youthful freshness steal; + +Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree +Whose healing leaves of life are shed, +In answer to the breath of prayer, +Upon the waiting head; + +Not to restore our failing forms, +And build the spirit's broken shrine, +But on the fainting soul to shed +A light and life divine-- + +Shall we grow weary in our watch, +And murmur at the long delay? +Impatient of our Father's time +And His appointed way? + +Or shall the stir of outward things +Allure and claim the Christian's eye, +When on the heathen watcher's ear +Their powerless murmurs die? + +Alas! a deeper test of faith +Than prison cell or martyr's stake, +The self-abasing watchfulness +Of silent prayer may make. + +We gird us bravely to rebuke +Our erring brother in the wrong,-- +And in the ear of Pride and Power +Our warning voice is strong. + +Easier to smite with Peter's sword +Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer. +Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, +Our hearts can do and dare. + +But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, +From waters which alone can save; + +And murmur for Abana's banks +And Pharpar's brighter wave. + +O Thou, who in the garden's shade +Didst wake Thy weary ones again, +Who slumbered at that fearful hour +Forgetful of Thy pain; + +Bend o'er us now, as over them, +And set our sleep-bound spirits free, +Nor leave us slumbering in the watch +Our souls should keep with Thee! +1841 + + + + +THE EXILES. + +The incidents upon which the following ballad has its foundation +about the year 1660. Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not the first +white settler of Nantucket. The career of Macy is briefly but carefully +outlined in James S. Pike's The New Puritan. + +THE goodman sat beside his door +One sultry afternoon, +With his young wife singing at his side +An old and goodly tune. + +A glimmer of heat was in the air,-- +The dark green woods were still; +And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud +Hung over the western hill. + +Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud +Above the wilderness, + +As some dark world from upper air +Were stooping over this. + +At times the solemn thunder pealed, +And all was still again, +Save a low murmur in the air +Of coming wind and rain. + +Just as the first big rain-drop fell, +A weary stranger came, +And stood before the farmer's door, +With travel soiled and lame. + +Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope +Was in his quiet glance, +And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed +His tranquil countenance,-- + +A look, like that his Master wore +In Pilate's council-hall: +It told of wrongs, but of a love +Meekly forgiving all. + +"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?" +The stranger meekly said; +And, leaning on his oaken staff, +The goodman's features read. + +"My life is hunted,--evil men +Are following in my track; +The traces of the torturer's whip +Are on my aged back; + +"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee +Within thy doors to take +A hunted seeker of the Truth, +Oppressed for conscience' sake." + +Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, +"Come in, old man!" quoth she, +"We will not leave thee to the storm, +Whoever thou mayst be." + +Then came the aged wanderer in, +And silent sat him down; +While all within grew dark as night +Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. + +But while the sudden lightning's blaze +Filled every cottage nook, +And with the jarring thunder-roll +The loosened casements shook, + +A heavy tramp of horses' feet +Came sounding up the lane, +And half a score of horse, or more, +Came plunging through the rain. + +"Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door,-- +We would not be house-breakers; +A rueful deed thou'st done this day, +In harboring banished Quakers." + +Out looked the cautious goodman then, +With much of fear and awe, +For there, with broad wig drenched with rain +The parish priest he saw. + +Open thy door, thou wicked man, +And let thy pastor in, +And give God thanks, if forty stripes +Repay thy deadly sin." + +"What seek ye?" quoth the goodman; +"The stranger is my guest; +He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,-- +Pray let the old man rest." + +"Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" +And strong hands shook the door. +"Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest, +"Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore." + +Then kindled Macy's eye of fire +"No priest who walks the earth, +Shall pluck away the stranger-guest +Made welcome to my hearth." + +Down from his cottage wall he caught +The matchlock, hotly tried +At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, +By fiery Ireton's side; + +Where Puritan, and Cavalier, +With shout and psalm contended; +And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, +With battle-thunder blended. + +Up rose the ancient stranger then +"My spirit is not free +To bring the wrath and violence +Of evil men on thee; + +"And for thyself, I pray forbear, +Bethink thee of thy Lord, +Who healed again the smitten ear, +And sheathed His follower's sword. + +"I go, as to the slaughter led. +Friends of the poor, farewell!" +Beneath his hand the oaken door +Back on its hinges fell. + +"Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," +The reckless scoffers cried, +As to a horseman's saddle-bow +The old man's arms were tied. + +And of his bondage hard and long +In Boston's crowded jail, +Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, +With sickening childhood's wail, + +It suits not with our tale to tell; +Those scenes have passed away; +Let the dim shadows of the past +Brood o'er that evil day. + +"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest, +"Take Goodman Macy too; +The sin of this day's heresy +His back or purse shall rue." + +"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macy cried. +She caught his manly arm; +Behind, the parson urged pursuit, +With outcry and alarm. + +Ho! speed the Macys, neck or naught,-- +The river-course was near; +The plashing on its pebbled shore +Was music to their ear. + +A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, +Above the waters hung, +And at its base, with every wave, +A small light wherry swung. + +A leap--they gain the boat--and there +The goodman wields his oar; +"Ill luck betide them all," he cried, +"The laggards on the shore." + +Down through the crashing underwood, +The burly sheriff came:-- +"Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself; +Yield in the King's own name." + +"Now out upon thy hangman's face!" +Bold Macy answered then,-- +"Whip women, on the village green, +But meddle not with men." + +The priest came panting to the shore, +His grave cocked hat was gone; +Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung +His wig upon a thorn. + +"Come back,--come back!" the parson cried, +"The church's curse beware." +"Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "but +Thy blessing prithee spare." + +"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest, +"Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." +"Who's born to be hanged will not be drowned," +Quoth Macy, merrily; + +"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by!" +He bent him to his oar, +And the small boat glided quietly +From the twain upon the shore. + +Now in the west, the heavy clouds +Scattered and fell asunder, +While feebler came the rush of rain, +And fainter growled the thunder. + +And through the broken clouds, the sun +Looked out serene and warm, +Painting its holy symbol-light +Upon the passing storm. + +Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span, +O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; +One bright foot touched the eastern hills, +And one with ocean blended. + +By green Pentucket's southern'slope +The small boat glided fast; +The watchers of the Block-house saw +The strangers as they passed. + +That night a stalwart garrison +Sat shaking in their shoes, +To hear the dip of Indian oars, +The glide of birch canoes. + +The fisher-wives of Salisbury-- +The men were all away-- +Looked out to see the stranger oar +Upon their waters play. + +Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw +Their sunset-shadows o'er them, +And Newbury's spire and weathercock +Peered o'er the pines before them. + +Around the Black Rocks, on their left, +The marsh lay broad and green; +And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, +Plum Island's hills were seen. + +With skilful hand and wary eye +The harbor-bar was crossed; +A plaything of the restless wave, +The boat on ocean tossed. + +The glory of the sunset heaven +On land and water lay; +On the steep hills of Agawam, +On cape, and bluff, and bay. + +They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, +And Gloucester's harbor-bar; +The watch-fire of the garrison +Shone like a setting star. + +How brightly broke the morning +On Massachusetts Bay! +Blue wave, and bright green island, +Rejoicing in the day. + +On passed the bark in safety +Round isle and headland steep; +No tempest broke above them, +No fog-cloud veiled the deep. + +Far round the bleak and stormy Cape +The venturous Macy passed, +And on Nantucket's naked isle +Drew up his boat at last. + +And how, in log-built cabin, +They braved the rough sea-weather; +And there, in peace and quietness, +Went down life's vale together; + +How others drew around them, +And how their fishing sped, +Until to every wind of heaven +Nantucket's sails were spread; + +How pale Want alternated +With Plenty's golden smile; +Behold, is it not written +In the annals of the isle? + +And yet that isle remaineth +A refuge of the free, +As when true-hearted Macy +Beheld it from the sea. + +Free as the winds that winnow +Her shrubless hills of sand, +Free as the waves that batter +Along her yielding land. + +Than hers, at duty's summons, +No loftier spirit stirs, +Nor falls o'er human suffering +A readier tear then hers. + +God bless the sea-beat island! +And grant forevermore, +That charity and freedom dwell +As now upon her shore! +1841. + + + + +THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. + +ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills +The sun shall sink again, +Farewell to life and all its ills, +Farewell to cell and chain! + +These prison shades are dark and cold, +But, darker far than they, +The shadow of a sorrow old +Is on my heart alway. + +For since the day when Warkworth wood +Closed o'er my steed, and I, +An alien from my name and blood, +A weed cast out to die,-- + +When, looking back in sunset light, +I saw her turret gleam, +And from its casement, far and white, +Her sign of farewell stream, + +Like one who, from some desert shore, +Doth home's green isles descry, +And, vainly longing, gazes o'er +The waste of wave and sky; + +So from the desert of my fate +I gaze across the past; +Forever on life's dial-plate +The shade is backward cast! + +I've wandered wide from shore to shore, +I've knelt at many a shrine; +And bowed me to the rocky floor +Where Bethlehem's tapers shine; + +And by the Holy Sepulchre +I've pledged my knightly sword +To Christ, His blessed Church, and her, +The Mother of our Lord. + +Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! +How vain do all things seem! +My soul is in the past, and life +To-day is but a dream. + +In vain the penance strange and long, +And hard for flesh to bear; +The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, +And sackcloth shirt of hair. + +The eyes of memory will not sleep, +Its ears are open still; +And vigils with the past they keep +Against my feeble will. + +And still the loves and joys of old +Do evermore uprise; +I see the flow of locks of gold, +The shine of loving eyes! + +Ah me! upon another's breast +Those golden locks recline; +I see upon another rest +The glance that once was mine. + +"O faithless priest! O perjured knight!" +I hear the Master cry; +"Shut out the vision from thy sight, +Let Earth and Nature die. + +"The Church of God is now thy spouse, +And thou the bridegroom art; +Then let the burden of thy vows +Crush down thy human heart!" + +In vain! This heart its grief must know, +Till life itself hath ceased, +And falls beneath the self-same blow +The lover and the priest! + +O pitying Mother! souls of light, +And saints and martyrs old! +Pray for a weak and sinful knight, +A suffering man uphold. + +Then let the Paynim work his will, +And death unbind my chain, +Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill +The sun shall fall again. +1843 + + + +CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. +In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick of +Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his +property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for +non-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the General +Court issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sell +the said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, +to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this order into +execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the +West Indies. + +To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise +to-day, +From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked +the spoil away; +Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful +three, +And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand- +maid free! +Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison +bars, +Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale +gleam of stars; +In the coldness and the darkness all through the +long night-time, +My grated casement whitened with autumn's early +rime. +Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept +by; +Star after star looked palely in and sank adown +the sky; +No sound amid night's stillness, save that which +seemed to be +The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; + +All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the +morrow +The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in +my sorrow, +Dragged to their place of market, and bargained +for and sold, +Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer +from the fold! + +Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, the +shrinking and the shame; +And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to +me came: +"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked +murmur said, +"Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy +maiden bed? + +"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and +sweet, +Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant +street? +Where be the youths whose glances, the summer +Sabbath through, +Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew? + + +"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink +thee with what mirth +Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm +bright hearth; +How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads +white and fair, +On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. + +"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for +thee kind words are spoken, +Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing +boys are broken; +No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are +laid, +For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters +braid. + +"O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies +led, +With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; +To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure +and sound, +And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and +sackcloth bound,-- + +"Mad scoffers of the priesthood; who mock at +things divine, +Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and +wine; +Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the +pillory lame, +Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in +their shame. + +"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling +slave, +Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage +to the grave! +Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless +thrall, +The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!" + +Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's +fears +Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing +tears, +I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in +silent prayer, +To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed +wert there! + +I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, +And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison +shackles fell, +Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's +robe of white, +And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. + +Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace +and love I felt, +Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit +melt; +When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language +of my heart, +And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts +depart. + +Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine +fell, +Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within +my lonely cell; +The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward +from the street +Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of +passing feet. + +At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was +open cast, +And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street +I passed; +I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared +not see, +How, from every door and window, the people +gazed on me. + +And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon +my cheek, +Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling +limbs grew weak: +"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her +soul cast out +The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness +and the doubt." + +Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in +morning's breeze, +And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering +words like these: +"Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven +a brazen wall, +Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over +all." + +We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit +waters broke +On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly +wall of rock; +The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear +lines on high, +Tracing with rope and slender spar their network +on the sky. + +And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped +and grave and cold, +And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed +and old, +And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at +hand, +Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the +land. + +And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready +ear, +The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and +scoff and jeer; +It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of +silence broke, +As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit +spoke. + +I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the +meek, +Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of +the weak! +Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn +the prison lock +Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf +amid the flock!" + +Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a +deeper red +O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of +anger spread; +"Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, +"heed not her words so wild, +Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns +his child!" + +But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the +while the sheriff read +That law the wicked rulers against the poor have +made, +Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood +bring +No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. + +Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, +said,-- +"Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this +Quaker maid? +In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's +shore, +You may hold her at a higher price than Indian +girl or Moor." + +Grim and silent stood the captains; and when +again he cried, +"Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no +sign replied; +But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind +words met my ear,-- +"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl +and dear!" + +A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying +friend was nigh,-- +I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his +eye; +And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so +kind to me, +Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring +of the sea,-- + +"Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins +of Spanish gold, +From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of +her hold, +By the living God who made me!--I would sooner +in your bay +Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child +away!" + +"Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their +cruel laws!" +Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's +just applause. +"Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, +Shall we see the poor and righteous again for +silver sold?" + +I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half- +way drawn, +Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate +and scorn; +Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in +silence back, +And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode +murmuring in his track. + +Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of +soul; +Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and +crushed his parchment roll. +"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, +the ruler and the priest, +Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well +released." + +Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept +round the silent bay, +As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me +go my way; +For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of +the glen, +And the river of great waters, had turned the +hearts of men. + +Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed +beneath my eye, +A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of +the sky, +A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and +woodland lay, +And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of +the bay. + +Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all +praises be, +Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand- +maid free; +All praise to Him before whose power the mighty +are afraid, +Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the +poor is laid! + +Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight +calm +Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful +psalm; +Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the +saints of old, +When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter +told. + +And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty +men of wrong, +The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand +upon the strong. +Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! +Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven +and devour! + +But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart +be glad, +And let the mourning ones again with robes of +praise be clad. +For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the +stormy wave, +And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to +save! +1843. + + + + +THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. + +The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends +connected with the famous General ----, of Hampton, New Hampshire, +who was regarded by his neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league with +the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from a +venerable family visitant. + + +DARK the halls, and cold the feast, +Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest. +All is over, all is done, +Twain of yesterday are one! +Blooming girl and manhood gray, +Autumn in the arms of May! + +Hushed within and hushed without, +Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout; +Dies the bonfire on the hill; +All is dark and all is still, +Save the starlight, save the breeze +Moaning through the graveyard trees, +And the great sea-waves below, +Pulse of the midnight beating slow. + +From the brief dream of a bride +She hath wakened, at his side. +With half-uttered shriek and start,-- +Feels she not his beating heart? +And the pressure of his arm, +And his breathing near and warm? + +Lightly from the bridal bed +Springs that fair dishevelled head, +And a feeling, new, intense, +Half of shame, half innocence, +Maiden fear and wonder speaks +Through her lips and changing cheeks. + +From the oaken mantel glowing, +Faintest light the lamp is throwing +On the mirror's antique mould, +High-backed chair, and wainscot old, +And, through faded curtains stealing, +His dark sleeping face revealing. + +Listless lies the strong man there, +Silver-streaked his careless hair; +Lips of love have left no trace +On that hard and haughty face; +And that forehead's knitted thought +Love's soft hand hath not unwrought. + +"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, +More than these calm lips will tell. +Stooping to my lowly state, +He hath made me rich and great, +And I bless him, though he be +Hard and stern to all save me!" + +While she speaketh, falls the light +O'er her fingers small and white; +Gold and gem, and costly ring +Back the timid lustre fling,-- +Love's selectest gifts, and rare, +His proud hand had fastened there. + +Gratefully she marks the glow +From those tapering lines of snow; +Fondly o'er the sleeper bending +His black hair with golden blending, +In her soft and light caress, +Cheek and lip together press. + +Ha!--that start of horror! why +That wild stare and wilder cry, +Full of terror, full of pain? +Is there madness in her brain? +Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low, +"Spare me,--spare me,--let me go!" + +God have mercy!--icy cold +Spectral hands her own enfold, +Drawing silently from them +Love's fair gifts of gold and gem. +"Waken! save me!" still as death +At her side he slumbereth. + +Ring and bracelet all are gone, +And that ice-cold hand withdrawn; +But she hears a murmur low, +Full of sweetness, full of woe, +Half a sigh and half a moan +"Fear not! give the dead her own!" + +Ah!--the dead wife's voice she knows! +That cold hand whose pressure froze, +Once in warmest life had borne +Gem and band her own hath worn. +"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes +Open with a dull surprise. + +In his arms the strong man folds her, +Closer to his breast he holds her; +Trembling limbs his own are meeting, +And he feels her heart's quick beating +"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?" +"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" + +"Nay, a dream,--an idle dream." +But before the lamp's pale gleam +Tremblingly her hand she raises. +There no more the diamond blazes, +Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,-- +"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!" + +Broken words of cheer he saith, +But his dark lip quivereth, +And as o'er the past he thinketh, +From his young wife's arms he shrinketh; +Can those soft arms round him lie, +Underneath his dead wife's eye? + +She her fair young head can rest +Soothed and childlike on his breast, +And in trustful innocence +Draw new strength and courage thence; +He, the proud man, feels within +But the cowardice of sin! + +She can murmur in her thought +Simple prayers her mother taught, +And His blessed angels call, +Whose great love is over all; +He, alone, in prayerless pride, +Meets the dark Past at her side! + +One, who living shrank with dread +From his look, or word, or tread, +Unto whom her early grave +Was as freedom to the slave, +Moves him at this midnight hour, +With the dead's unconscious power! + +Ah, the dead, the unforgot! +From their solemn homes of thought, +Where the cypress shadows blend +Darkly over foe and friend, +Or in love or sad rebuke, +Back upon the living look. + +And the tenderest ones and weakest, +Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, +Lifting from those dark, still places, +Sweet and sad-remembered faces, +O'er the guilty hearts behind +An unwitting triumph find. + +1843 + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE VAUDOIS TEACHER *** +By John Greenleaf Whittier + +***** This file should be named 9560.txt or 9560.zip **** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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