NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY

 POEMS

 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT

The Standard Library Edition of Mr. Whittier's writings comprises hispoetical and prose works as re-arranged and thoroughly revised byhimself or with his cooperation. Mr. Whittier has supplied suchadditional information regarding the subject and occasion of certainpoems as may be stated in brief head-notes, and this edition has beenmuch enriched by the poet's personal comment. So far as practicable thedates of publication of the various articles have been given, and sincethese were originally published soon after composition, the dates oftheir first appearance have been taken as determining the time at whichthey were written. At the request of the Publishers, Mr. Whittier hasallowed his early poems, discarded from previous collections, to beplaced, in the general order of their appearance, in an appendix to thefinal volume of poems. By this means the present edition is made socomplete and retrospective that students of the poet's career willalways find the most abundant material for their purpose. The Publisherscongratulate themselves and the public that the careful attention whichMr. Whittier has been able to give to this revision of his works hasresulted in so comprehensive and well-adjusted a collection. 

The portraits prefixed to the several volumes have been chosen with aview to illustrating successive periods in the poet's life. Theoriginal sources and dates are indicated in each case. 

NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS

CONTENTS:

THE VAUDOIS TEACHERTHE FEMALE MARTYREXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND"THE DEMON OF THE STUDYTHE FOUNTAINPENTUCKETTHE NORSEMENFUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKISST JOHNTHE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLONTHE EXILESTHE KNIGHT OF ST JOHNCASSANDRA SOUTHWICKTHE 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 URYTHE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTATHE LEGEND OF ST MARKKATHLEENTHE WELL OF LOCH MAREETHE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITSTAULERTHE HERMIT OF THE THEBAIDTHE GARRISON OF CAPE ANNTHE GIFT OF TRITEMIUSSKIPPER IRESON'S RIDETHE SYCAMORESTHE PIPES AT LUCKNOWTELLING THE BEESTHE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERYTHE 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 SEWALLTHE RED RIVER VOYAGEURTHE PREACHERTHE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUAMY PLAYMATECOBBLER KEEZAR'S VISIONAMY WENTWORTHTHE COUNTESS

AMONG THE HILLS PRELUDE AMONG THE HILLS

THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELLTHE TWO RABBINSNOREMBEGAMIRIAMMAUD MULLERMARY GARVINTHE RANGERNAUHAUGHT, THE DEACONTHE SISTERSMARGUERITETHE ROBIN

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM INTRODUCTORY NOTE PRELUDE THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM

KING VOLMER AND ELSIETHE THREE BELLSJOHN UNDERHILLCONDUCTOR BRADLEYTHE WITCH OF WENHAMKING SOLOMON AND THE ANTSIN THE "OLD SOUTH"THE HENCHMANTHE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLKTHE KHAN'S DEVILTHE KING'S MISSIVEVALUATIONRABBI ISHMAELTHE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS To H P S THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS

THE WISHING BRIDGEHOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVERST GREGORY'S GUESTCONTENTSBIRCHBROOK MILLTHE TWO ELIZABETHSREQUITALTHE HOMESTEADHOW THE ROBIN CAMEBANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTSTHE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN

NOTES

NOTE. -The portrait prefixed to this volume was etched byS. A. Schoff, in 1888, after a painting by Bass Otis, a pupil ofGilbert Stuart, made in the winter of 1836-1837. 

PROEM

I LOVE the old melodious laysWhich 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 hoursTo breathe their marvellous notes I try;I feel them, as the leaves and flowersIn 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 rhymeBeat 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 showThe secrets of the heart and mind;To drop the plummet-line belowOur common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. 

Yet here at least an earnest senseOf 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 belongNor mighty Milton's gift divine, Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strongAs 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 noteby way of preface:--

"In these volumes, for the first time, a complete collection of mypoetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know thatthese scattered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot butregret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give thatattention to their revision and arrangement, which respect for theopinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand. 

"That there are pieces in this collection which I would 'willingly letdie, ' I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and Imust 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 whichthey were written, and the events by which they were suggested. 

"The long poem of Mogg Megone was in a great measure composed in earlylife; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not suchas the writer would have chosen at any subsequent period. "

After a lapse of thirty years since the above was written, I have beenrequested by my publishers to make some preparation for a new andrevised edition of my poems. I cannot flatter myself that I have addedmuch to the interest of the work beyond the correction of my own errorsand those of the press, with the addition of a few heretoforeunpublished pieces, and occasional notes of explanation which seemednecessary. I have made an attempt to classify the poems under a fewgeneral heads, and have transferred the long poem of Mogg Megone to theAppendix, with other specimens of my earlier writings. I have endeavoredto affix the dates of composition or publication as far as possible. 

In looking over these poems I have not been unmindful of occasionalprosaic lines and verbal infelicities, but at this late day I haveneither strength nor patience to undertake their correction. 

Perhaps a word of explanation may be needed in regard to a class ofpoems written between the years 1832 and 1865. Of their defects from anartistic point of view it is not necessary to speak. They were theearnest and often vehement expression of the writer's thought andfeeling at critical periods in the great conflict between Freedom andSlavery. They were written with no expectation that they would survivethe occasions which called them forth: they were protests, alarmsignals, trumpet-calls to action, words wrung from the writer's heart, forged at white heat, and of course lacking the finish and carefulword-selection which reflection and patient brooding over them mighthave given. Such as they are, they belong to the history of theAnti-Slavery movement, and may serve as way-marks of its progress. Iftheir language at times seems severe and harsh, the monstrous wrong ofSlavery which provoked it must be its excuse, if any is needed. Inattacking it, we did not measure our words. "It is, " said Garrison, "a waste of politeness to be courteous to the devil. " But in truth thecontest was, in a great measure, an impersonal one, --hatred of slaveryand 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 theNotes on Virginia, says "It is impossible to be temperate and pursue thesubject of Slavery. " After the great contest was over, no class of theAmerican people were more ready, with kind words and deprecation ofharsh retaliation, to welcome back the revolted States than theAbolitionists; and none have since more heartily rejoiced at the fastincreasing prosperity of the South. 

Grateful for the measure of favor which has been accorded to mywritings, I leave this edition with the public. It contains all that Icare to re-publish, and some things which, had the matter of choice beenleft 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 theWaldenses disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry. Theygained access to the house through their occupation as peddlers ofsilks, jewels, and trinkets. "Having disposed of some of their goods, "it is said by a writer who quotes the inquisitor Rainerus Sacco, "theycautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable thanthese, inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could beprotected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bibleor Testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy. " The poem, under the title Le Colporteur Vaudois, was translated into French byProfessor G. De Felice, of Montauban, and further naturalized byProfessor Alexandre Rodolphe Vinet, who quoted it in his lectures onFrench literature, afterwards published. It became familiar in this formto the Waldenses, who adopted it as a household poem. An Americanclergyman, 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 theinformation. At the banquet which closed the meeting of the synod, themoderator announced the fact, and was instructed in the name of theWaldensian church to write to me a letter of thanks. My letter, writtenin 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 curlsWhich 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 theeNay, 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 behindHath 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 ourAtlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, whilein voluntary attendance upon the sick. 

"BRING out your dead!" The midnight streetHeard 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 embraceThey 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 prayerRose through the damp and noisome air, Giving thee to thy God;Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gaveGrace 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 theeAs if beneath the convent-treeThy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keepingTheir tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. 

For thou wast one in whom the lightOf Heaven's own love was kindled well;Enduring with a martyr's might, Through weary day and wakeful night, Far more than words may tellGentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown, Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

Where manly hearts were failing, whereThe 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 dreadFor the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead. 

And, where the sickly taper shedIts light through vapors, damp, confined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, A new Electra by the bedOf suffering human-kind!Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, To that pure hope which fadeth not away. 

Innocent teacher of the highAnd 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 oneWho, turning from the world, as thou, Before life's pathway had begunTo 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 hereCould be for thee a meet reward;Thine is a treasure far more dearEye hath not seen it, nor the earOf living mortal heardThe joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love!

Sleep on in peace. The earth has notA 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; thineShall 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 heartShall 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 yellAnd fire-dance round the magic rock, Forgotten like the Druid's spellAt moonrise by his holy oak!No more along the shadowy glenGlide the dim ghosts of murdered men;No more the unquiet churchyard deadGlimpse 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-stoneThe roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed, No longer rings with midnight revelOf witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;No pale blue flame sends out its flashesThrough creviced roof and shattered sashes!The witch-grass round the hazel springMay sharply to the night-air sing, But there no more shall withered hagsRefresh at ease their broomstick nags, Or taste those hazel-shadowed watersAs 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 laughterOf the fell demon following after!The cautious goodman nails no moreA horseshoe on his outer door, Lest some unseemly hag should fitTo his own mouth her bridle-bit;The goodwife's churn no more refusesIts wonted culinary usesUntil, with heated needle burned, The witch has to her place returned!Our witches are no longer oldAnd wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, But young and gay and laughing creatures, With the heart's sunshine on their features;Their sorcery--the light which dancesWhere 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 moanAbove her nightly closing flowers, Sweeter than that which sighed of yoreAlong 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 seeThe magic scroll within his keeping. And now our modern Yankee seesNor 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 eyesFamiliar 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 satBy the stout monk's side in social chat. 

The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of himWho 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 castThe evil weight from his back at last. 

But the demon that cometh day by dayTo my quiet room and fireside nook, Where the casement light falls dim and grayOn faded painting and ancient book, Is a sorrier one than any whose namesAre 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 hatSlouched 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 newFall 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 lookOf one who reads to himself alone;And hour after hour on my senses comeThat 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 noonO'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 seemsTo 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 lowHer 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 layWhich 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 treatOf demons of every name and sizeWhich a Christian man is presumed to meet, But never a hint and never a lineCan 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 wallOnce worn by a learned Judge, they say, At Salem court in the witchcraft day!

"Conjuro te, sceleratissime, Abire ad tuum locum!"--stillLike a visible nightmare he sits by me, --The exorcism has lost its skill;And I hear again in my haunted roomThe husky wheeze and the dolorous hum!

Ah! commend me to Mary MagdalenWith her sevenfold plagues, to the wandering Jew, To the terrors which haunted Orestes whenThe 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 ofclear water, gushing from the very roots of a venerable oak. It is abouttwo miles from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimac. 

TRAVELLER! on thy journey toilingBy the swift Powow, With the summer sunshine fallingOn thy heated brow, Listen, while all else is still, To the brooklet from the hill. 

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowingBy that streamlet's side, And a greener verdure showingWhere its waters glide, Down the hill-slope murmuring on, Over root and mossy stone. 

Where yon oak his broad arms flingethO'er the sloping hill, Beautiful and freshly springethThat soft-flowing rill, Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, Gushing up to sun and air. 

Brighter waters sparkled neverIn that magic well, Of whose gift of life foreverAncient legends tell, In the lonely desert wasted, And by mortal lip untasted. 

Waters which the proud CastilianSought with longing eyes, Underneath the bright pavilionOf the Indian skies, Where his forest pathway layThrough the blooms of Florida. 

Years ago a lonely stranger, With the dusky browOf the outcast forest-ranger, Crossed the swift Powow, And betook him to the rillAnd the oak upon the hill. 

O'er his face of moody sadnessFor an instant shoneSomething like a gleam of gladness, As he stooped him downTo the fountain's grassy side, And his eager thirst supplied. 

With the oak its shadow throwingO'er his mossy seat, And the cool, sweet waters flowingSoftly at his feet, Closely by the fountain's rimThat lone Indian seated him. 

Autumn's earliest frost had givenTo the woods belowHues of beauty, such as heavenLendeth to its bow;And the soft breeze from the westScarcely broke their dreamy rest. 

Far behind was Ocean strivingWith 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 meadowGazed that stranger man, Sadly, till the twilight shadowOver all things ran, Save where spire and westward paneFlashed the sunset back again. 

Gazing thus upon the dwellingOf his warrior sires, Where no lingering trace was tellingOf their wigwam fires, Who the gloomy thoughts might knowOf that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, Hills that once had stoodDown their sides the shadows throwingOf a mighty wood, Where the deer his covert kept, And the eagle's pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glidedDown the swift Powow, Dark and gloomy bridges stridedThose 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 ringingSmote upon his ear;And the thick and sullen smokeFrom the blackened forges broke. 

Could it be his fathers everLoved to linger here?These bare hills, this conquered river, --Could they hold them dear, With their native lovelinessTamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of evenGathered o'er the hill, While the western half of heavenBlushed with sunset still, From the fountain's mossy seatTurned the Indian's weary feet. 

Year on year hath flown forever, But he came no moreTo the hillside on the riverWhere he came before. But the villager can tellOf that strange man's visit well. 

And the merry children, ladenWith their fruits or flowers, Roving boy and laughing maiden, In their school-day hours, Love the simple tale to tellOf the Indian and his well. 1837

PENTUCKET. 

The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the IndiansPentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier town, and duringthirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of DeChaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the famous and bloody sacker ofDeerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time containedonly thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a stilllarger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, amongthem Hertel de Rouville. The minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, waskilled by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled The BorderWar 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 townThe mellow light of sunset shone!Each small, bright lake, whose waters stillMirror the forest and the hill, Reflected from its waveless breastThe beauty of a cloudless west, Glorious as if a glimpse were givenWithin the western gates of heaven, Left, by the spirit of the starOf sunset's holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river's tranquil floodThe dark and low-walled dwellings stood, Where many a rood of open landStretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly greenThe 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 yetWas 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 hearthRose 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 fateWhich made its dwellings desolate. 

Hours passed away. By moonlight spedThe Merrimac along his bed. Bathed in the pallid lustre, stoodDark 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 stoodJust 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 hearSwelled on the night air, far and clear;Then smote the Indian tomahawkOn crashing door and shattering lock;

Then rang the rifle-shot, and thenThe 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 glaredOn still dead men and scalp-knives bared. 

The morning sun looked brightly throughThe 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 smokeFrom smouldering ruins slowly broke;And on the greensward many a stain, And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had spedPentucket, on thy fated head. 

Even now the villager can tellWhere Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, Still show the door of wasting oak, Through which the fatal death-shot broke, And point the curious stranger whereDe 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 overliesThe victims of that sacrifice. 1838. 

THE NORSEMEN. 

In the early part of the present century, a fragment of a statue, rudelychiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, onthe Merrimac. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The factthat the ancient Northmen visited the north-east coast of North Americaand probably New England, some centuries before the discovery of thewestern 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 strandOf shifting and unstable sand, Which wastes beneath the steady chimeAnd beating of the waves of Time!Who from its bed of primal rockFirst wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, Thy rude and savage outline wrought?

The waters of my native streamAre glancing in the sun's warm beam;From sail-urged keel and flashing oarThe circles widen to its shore;And cultured field and peopled townSlope to its willowed margin down. Yet, while this morning breeze is bringingThe home-life sound of school-bells ringing, And rolling wheel, and rapid jarOf the fire-winged and steedless car, And voices from the wayside nearCome 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 moreStretches along the sail-thronged shore;Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proudSpectrally rising where they stood, I see the old, primeval wood;Dark, shadow-like, on either handI 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 throwIts wild arms o'er the stream below. Unchanged, alone, the same bright riverFlows on, as it will flow foreverI listen, and I hear the lowSoft 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 brinkThe 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 throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Have they not in the North Sea's blastBowed to the waves the straining mast?Their frozen sails the low, pale sunOf Thule's night has shone upon;Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweepRound icy drift, and headland steep. Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughtersHave 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 viewTheir 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 asideIts 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 timeTo 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 hourRound Odin's mossy stone of power. The wolf beneath the Arctic moonHas answered to that startling rune;The Gael has heard its stormy swell, The light Frank knows its summons well;Iona's sable-stoled CuldeeHas 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 diesIn darkness on my dreaming eyesThe 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 aloneA broken mass of common stone;And if it be the chiselled limbOf 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 traceIts name, or origin, or place. Yet, for this vision of the Past, This glance upon its darkness cast, My spirit bows in gratitudeBefore 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 showThe buried forms of long ago. As if a portion of that ThoughtBy which the Eternal will is wrought, Whose impulse fills anew with breathThe frozen solitude of Death, To mortal mind were sometimes lent, To mortal musings sometimes sent, To whisper-even when it seemsBut 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 Agamenticusand Casco Bay, was killed at Windham on Sebago Lake in the spring of1756. After the whites had retired, the surviving Indians "swayed" orbent down a young tree until its roots were upturned, placed the body oftheir chief beneath it, then released the tree, which, in springing backto its old position, covered the grave. The Sokokis were early convertsto the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removedto the French settlements on the St. Francois. 

AROUND Sebago's lonely lakeThere lingers not a breeze to breakThe 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 liePiled 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 wingThe lingering frosts of winter cling. 

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, And mildly from its sunny nooksThe 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 careHath 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 diedAlong Sebago's wooded side;

And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkly, where a swell of landSlopes upward from the lake's white sand. 

Fire and the axe have swept it bare, Save one lone beech, unclosing thereIts 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 pressedBeneath the heavy arms, which restUpon 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 raceTheir green and pleasant dwelling-place, Which knew them once, retains no trace;

Oh, long may sunset's light be shedAs 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 breakForever round that lonely lakeA 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 lessThese bronzed forms of the wildernessShe foldeth in her long caress?

As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow, As if with fairer hair and browThe blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 

What though the places of their restNo 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 roundThe Indian's lowliest forest-mound, --And they have made it holy ground. 

There ceases man's frail judgment; allHis powerless bolts of cursing fallUnheeded 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 aloneThe secret of the heart is known, --The hidden language traced thereon;

Who from its many cumberingsOf 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, andD'Aulnay Charnasy, a Catholic, for the possession of Acadia, forms oneof the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. La Tourreceived aid in several instances from the Puritan colony ofMassachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtainingarms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle wasattacked by D'Aulnay, and successfully defended by its high-spiritedmistress. 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 thendied 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 shallopHe gazed, as the sun, From its bed in the ocean, Streamed up the St. John. 

O'er the blue western watersThat shallop had passed, Where the mists of PenobscotClung damp on her mast. St. Saviour had lookedOn the heretic sail, As the songs of the HuguenotRose on the gale. 

The pale, ghostly fathersRemembered her well, And had cursed her while passing, With taper and bell;But the men of Monhegan, Of Papists abhorred, Had welcomed and feastedThe heretic Lord. 

They had loaded his shallopWith dun-fish and ball, With stores for his larder, And steel for his wall. Pemaquid, from her bastionsAnd turrets of stone, Had welcomed his comingWith banner and gun. 

And the prayers of the eldersHad followed his way, As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. Oh, well sped La TourFor, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch, For his coming again. 

O'er the Isle of the PheasantThe morning sun shone, On the plane-trees which shadedThe shores of St. John. "Now, why from yon battlementsSpeaks not my love!Why waves there no bannerMy fortress above?"

Dark and wild, from his deckSt. Estienne gazed about, On fire-wasted dwellings, And silent redoubt;From the low, shattered wallsWhich the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner, There thundered no gun!

But beneath the low archOf its doorway there stoodA 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 PapistHe fastened his hand. 

"Speak, son of the WomanOf scarlet and sin!What wolf has been prowlingMy castle within?"From the grasp of the soldierThe 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 mercyI hitherward came, While the walls of thy castleYet spouted with flame. 

"Pentagoet's dark vesselsWere moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaringAloud for their prey. ""But what of my lady?"Cried Charles of Estienne. "On the shot-crumbled turretThy lady was seen:

"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayedIn the hot breath of cannon!But woe to the heretic, Evermore woe!When the son of the churchAnd the cross is his foe!

"In the track of the shell, In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept overThe breach of the wall!Steel to steel, gun to gun, One moment, --and thenAlone stood the victor, Alone with his men!

"Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady aloneSaw the cross-blazoned bannerFloat 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 theeIs needed by herWhom 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 smittenLa Tour staggered back;His hand grasped his sword-hilt, His forehead grew black. He sprang on the deckOf his shallop again. "We cruise now for vengeance!Give way!" cried Estienne. 

"Massachusetts shall hearOf the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creeksideHer fishers shall throng!Pentagoet shall rueWhat his Papists have done, When his palisades echoThe Puritan's gun!"

Oh, the loveliest of heavensHung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine, And green isles before him:But a pale hand was beckoningThe Huguenot on;And in blackness and ashesBehind was St. John!1841

THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. 

Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenthcentury, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred bythe natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certainintervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them wasrestored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw severalvenerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under thetree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf. 

THEY sat in silent watchfulnessThe sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, Their failing eyes looked out. 

Gray Age and Sickness waiting thereThrough weary night and lingering day, --Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they. 

Unheeded in the boughs aboveThe song of Ceylon's birds was sweet;Unseen of them the island flowersBloomed 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 danceOf Ceylon's maids, the passing gleamOf battle-flag and lance?

They waited for that falling leafOf which the wandering Jogees sing:Which lends once more to wintry ageThe greenness of its spring. 

Oh, if these poor and blinded onesIn trustful patience wait to feelO'er torpid pulse and failing limbA youthful freshness steal;

Shall we, who sit beneath that TreeWhose 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 shedA light and life divine--

Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at the long delay?Impatient of our Father's timeAnd His appointed way?

Or shall the stir of outward thingsAllure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's earTheir powerless murmurs die?

Alas! a deeper test of faithThan prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulnessOf silent prayer may make. 

We gird us bravely to rebukeOur erring brother in the wrong, --And in the ear of Pride and PowerOur warning voice is strong. 

Easier to smite with Peter's swordThan "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 banksAnd Pharpar's brighter wave. 

O Thou, who in the garden's shadeDidst wake Thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hourForgetful of Thy pain;

Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watchOur souls should keep with Thee!1841

THE EXILES. 

The incidents upon which the following ballad has its foundationabout the year 1660. Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not the firstwhite settler of Nantucket. The career of Macy is briefly but carefullyoutlined in James S. Pike's The New Puritan. 

THE goodman sat beside his doorOne sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his sideAn 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-cloudHung over the western hill. 

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloudAbove the wilderness, As some dark world from upper airWere stooping over this. 

At times the solemn thunder pealed, And all was still again, Save a low murmur in the airOf 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 hopeWas in his quiet glance, And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothedHis tranquil countenance, --

A look, like that his Master woreIn Pilate's council-hall:It told of wrongs, but of a loveMeekly 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 menAre following in my track;The traces of the torturer's whipAre on my aged back;

"And much, I fear, 't will peril theeWithin thy doors to takeA 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 nightBeneath the storm-cloud's frown. 

But while the sudden lightning's blazeFilled every cottage nook, And with the jarring thunder-rollThe loosened casements shook, A heavy tramp of horses' feetCame 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 rainThe parish priest he saw. 

Open thy door, thou wicked man, And let thy pastor in, And give God thanks, if forty stripesRepay 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-guestMade welcome to my hearth. "

Down from his cottage wall he caughtThe matchlock, hotly triedAt 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 freeTo bring the wrath and violenceOf 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 doorBack on its hinges fell. 

"Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay, "The reckless scoffers cried, As to a horseman's saddle-bowThe old man's arms were tied. 

And of his bondage hard and longIn 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 pastBrood o'er that evil day. 

"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest, "Take Goodman Macy too;The sin of this day's heresyHis 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 shoreWas 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 thereThe 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, hungHis wig upon a thorn. 

"Come back, --come back!" the parson cried, "The church's curse beware. ""Curse, an' thou wilt, " said Macy, "butThy 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 quietlyFrom the twain upon the shore. 

Now in the west, the heavy cloudsScattered and fell asunder, While feebler came the rush of rain, And fainter growled the thunder. 

And through the broken clouds, the sunLooked out serene and warm, Painting its holy symbol-lightUpon 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'slopeThe small boat glided fast;The watchers of the Block-house sawThe strangers as they passed. 

That night a stalwart garrisonSat 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 oarUpon their waters play. 

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threwTheir sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercockPeered 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 eyeThe harbor-bar was crossed;A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed. 

The glory of the sunset heavenOn 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 garrisonShone like a setting star. 

How brightly broke the morningOn Massachusetts Bay!Blue wave, and bright green island, Rejoicing in the day. 

On passed the bark in safetyRound isle and headland steep;No tempest broke above them, No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 

Far round the bleak and stormy CapeThe venturous Macy passed, And on Nantucket's naked isleDrew 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 heavenNantucket's sails were spread;

How pale Want alternatedWith Plenty's golden smile;Behold, is it not writtenIn the annals of the isle?

And yet that isle remainethA refuge of the free, As when true-hearted MacyBeheld it from the sea. 

Free as the winds that winnowHer shrubless hills of sand, Free as the waves that batterAlong her yielding land. 

Than hers, at duty's summons, No loftier spirit stirs, Nor falls o'er human sufferingA readier tear then hers. 

God bless the sea-beat island!And grant forevermore, That charity and freedom dwellAs now upon her shore!1841. 

THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 

ERE down yon blue Carpathian hillsThe 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 oldIs on my heart alway. 

For since the day when Warkworth woodClosed 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'erThe waste of wave and sky;

So from the desert of my fateI gaze across the past;Forever on life's dial-plateThe 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 floorWhere Bethlehem's tapers shine;

And by the Holy SepulchreI've pledged my knightly swordTo 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 lifeTo-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 keepAgainst my feeble will. 

And still the loves and joys of oldDo evermore uprise;I see the flow of locks of gold, The shine of loving eyes!

Ah me! upon another's breastThose golden locks recline;I see upon another restThe 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 vowsCrush down thy human heart!"

In vain! This heart its grief must know, Till life itself hath ceased, And falls beneath the self-same blowThe 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 hillThe sun shall fall again. 1843

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick ofSalem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all hisproperty for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined fornon-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the GeneralCourt issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sellthe said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines. " An attempt was made to carry this order intoexecution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to theWest Indies. 

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing riseto-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath pluckedthe spoil away;Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithfulthree, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand-maid free!Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prisonbars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the palegleam of stars;In the coldness and the darkness all through thelong night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's earlyrime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour creptby;Star after star looked palely in and sank adownthe sky;No sound amid night's stillness, save that whichseemed to beThe dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on themorrowThe ruler and the cruel priest would mock me inmy sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargainedfor and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heiferfrom the fold!

Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, theshrinking and the shame;And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers tome came:"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly, " the wickedmurmur said, "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thymaiden bed?

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft andsweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasantstreet?Where be the youths whose glances, the summerSabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?

"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethinkthee with what mirthThy happy schoolmates gather around the warmbright hearth;How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheadswhite and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 

"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not forthee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughingboys are broken;No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap arelaid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful huntersbraid. 

"O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fanciesled, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread;To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pureand sound, And mate with maniac women, loose-haired andsackcloth bound, --

"Mad scoffers of the priesthood; who mock atthings divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread andwine;Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from thepillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying intheir shame. 

"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toilingslave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondageto the grave!Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopelessthrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"

Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature'sfearsWrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailingtears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove insilent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeedwert there!

I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prisonshackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel'srobe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 

Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peaceand love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spiritmelt;When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the languageof my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubtsdepart. 

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshinefell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate withinmy lonely cell;The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upwardfrom the streetCame careless laugh and idle word, and tread ofpassing feet. 

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door wasopen cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long streetI passed;I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but darednot see, How, from every door and window, the peoplegazed on me. 

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned uponmy cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my tremblinglimbs grew weak:"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from hersoul cast outThe fear of man, which brings a snare, the weaknessand the doubt. "

Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud inmorning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whisperingwords like these:"Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heavena brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is overall. "

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlitwaters brokeOn glaring reach of shining beach, and shinglywall of rock;The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clearlines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their networkon the sky. 

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrappedand grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzedand old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk athand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of theland. 

And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's readyear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh andscoff and jeer;It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal ofsilence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spiritspoke. 

I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of themeek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler ofthe weak!Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones, --go turnthe prison lockOf the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolfamid the flock!"

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with adeeper redO'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush ofanger spread;"Good people, " quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her, --the Devil ownshis child!"

But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, thewhile the sheriff readThat law the wicked rulers against the poor havemade, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthoodbringNo bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 

Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said, --"Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take thisQuaker maid?In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia'sshore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indiangirl or Moor. "

Grim and silent stood the captains; and whenagain he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, nosign replied;But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kindwords met my ear, --"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girland dear!"

A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pityingfriend was nigh, --I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in hiseye;And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, sokind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaringof the sea, --

"Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coinsof Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage ofher hold, By the living God who made me!--I would soonerin your baySink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this childaway!"

"Well answered, worthy captain, shame on theircruel laws!"Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people'sjust applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again forsilver sold?"

I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hateand scorn;Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned insilence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rodemurmuring in his track. 

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness ofsoul;Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, andcrushed 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 wellreleased. "

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, sweptround the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade mego my way;For He who turns the courses of the streamlet ofthe glen, And the river of great waters, had turned thehearts of men. 

Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changedbeneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls ofthe sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream andwoodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters ofthe bay. 

Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him allpraises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand-maid free;All praise to Him before whose power the mightyare afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare which for thepoor is laid!

Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilightcalmUplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the gratefulpsalm;Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did thesaints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Petertold. 

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mightymen of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His handupon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to ravenand devour!

But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heartbe glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes ofpraise be clad. For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed thestormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still tosave!1843. 

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 

The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legendsconnected with the famous General ----, of Hampton, New Hampshire, who was regarded by his neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league withthe adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from avenerable 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 breezeMoaning through the graveyard trees, And the great sea-waves below, Pulse of the midnight beating slow. 

From the brief dream of a brideShe 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 bedSprings that fair dishevelled head, And a feeling, new, intense, Half of shame, half innocence, Maiden fear and wonder speaksThrough her lips and changing cheeks. 

From the oaken mantel glowing, Faintest light the lamp is throwingOn 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 traceOn that hard and haughty face;And that forehead's knitted thoughtLove'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 beHard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the lightO'er her fingers small and white;Gold and gem, and costly ringBack the timid lustre fling, --Love's selectest gifts, and rare, His proud hand had fastened there. 

Gratefully she marks the glowFrom those tapering lines of snow;Fondly o'er the sleeper bendingHis black hair with golden blending, In her soft and light caress, Cheek and lip together press. 

Ha!--that start of horror! whyThat 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 coldSpectral hands her own enfold, Drawing silently from themLove's fair gifts of gold and gem. "Waken! save me!" still as deathAt 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 borneGem and band her own hath worn. "Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyesOpen 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 gleamTremblingly 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 restSoothed and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocenceDraw new strength and courage thence;He, the proud man, feels withinBut the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thoughtSimple 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 dreadFrom his look, or word, or tread, Unto whom her early graveWas 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 blendDarkly 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 behindAn unwitting triumph find. 

1843