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Title: Pennsylvania Pilgrim, and other poems

Author: John Greenleaf Whittier

Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9565]

Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Credits: This eBook was produced by David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM, AND OTHER POEMS ***

This eBook was produced by David Widger

NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY

POEMS

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

CONTENTS:

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 PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

THE beginning of German emigration to America may be traced to the personal influence of William Penn, who in 1677 visited the Continent, and made the acquaintance of an intelligent and highly cultivated circle of Pietists, or Mystics, who, reviving in the seventeenth century the spiritual faith and worship of Tauler and the "Friends of God" in the fourteenth, gathered about the pastor Spener, and the young and beautiful Eleonora Johanna Von Merlau. In this circle originated the Frankfort Land Company, which bought of William Penn, the Governor of Pennsylvania, a tract of land near the new city of Philadelphia. The company's agent in the New World was a rising young lawyer, Francis Daniel Pastorius, son of Judge Pastorius, of Windsheim, who, at the age of seventeen, entered the University of Altorf. He studied law at, Strasburg, Basle, and Jena, and at Ratisbon, the seat of the Imperial Government, obtained a practical knowledge of international polity. Successful in all his examinations and disputations, he received the degree of Doctor of Law at Nuremberg in 1676. In 1679 he was a law-lecturer at Frankfort, where he became deeply interested in the teachings of Dr. Spener. In 1680-81 he travelled in France, England, Ireland, and Italy with his friend Herr Von Rodeck. "I was," he says, "glad to enjoy again the company of my Christian friends, rather than be with Von Rodeck feasting and dancing." In 1683, in company with a small number of German Friends, he emigrated to America, settling upon the Frankfort Company's tract between the Schuylkill and the Delaware rivers. The township was divided into four hamlets, namely, Germantown, Krisheim, Crefield, and Sommerhausen. Soon after his arrival he united himself with the Society of Friends, and became one of its most able and devoted members, as well as the recognized head and lawgiver of the settlement. He married, two years after his arrival, Anneke (Anna), daughter of Dr. Klosterman, of Muhlheim. In the year 1688 he drew up a memorial against slaveholding, which was adopted by the Germantown Friends and sent up to the Monthly Meeting, and thence to the Yearly Meeting at Philadelphia. It is noteworthy as the first protest made by a religious body against Negro Slavery. The original document was discovered in 1844 by the Philadelphia antiquarian, Nathan Kite, and published in The Friend (Vol. XVIII. No. 16). It is a bold and direct appeal to the best instincts of the heart. "Have not," he asks, "these negroes as much right to fight for their freedom as you have to keep them slaves?" Under the wise direction of Pastorius, the German-town settlement grew and prospered. The inhabitants planted orchards and vineyards, and surrounded themselves with souvenirs of their old home. A large number of them were linen-weavers, as well as small farmers. The Quakers were the principal sect, but men of all religions were tolerated, and lived together in harmony. In 1692 Richard Frame published, in what he called verse, a Description of Pennsylvania, in which he alludes to the settlement:—

"The German town of which I spoke before,

Which is at least in length one mile or more,

Where lives High German people and Low Dutch,

Whose trade in weaving linen cloth is much,

—There grows the flax, as also you may know

That from the same they do divide the tow.

Their trade suits well their habitation,

We find convenience for their occupation."

Pastorius seems to have been on intimate terms with William Penn, Thomas Lloyd, Chief Justice Logan, Thomas Story, and other leading men in the Province belonging to his own religious society, as also with Kelpius, the learned Mystic of the Wissahickon, with the pastor of the Swedes' church, and the leaders of the Mennonites. He wrote a description of Pennsylvania, which was published at Frankfort and Leipsic in 1700 and 1701. His Lives of the Saints, etc., written in German and dedicated to Professor Schurmberg, his old teacher, was published in 1690. He left behind him many unpublished manuscripts covering a very wide range of subjects, most of which are now lost. One huge manuscript folio, entitled Hive Beestock, Melliotropheum Alucar, or Rusca Apium, still remains, containing one thousand pages with about one hundred lines to a page. It is a medley of knowledge and fancy, history, philosophy, and poetry, written in seven languages. A large portion of his poetry is devoted to the pleasures of gardening, the description of flowers, and the care of bees. The following specimen of his punning Latin is addressed to an orchard-pilferer:—

"Quisquis in haec furtim reptas viridaria nostra

Tangere fallaci poma caveto mane,

Si non obsequeris faxit Deus omne quod opto,

Cum malis nostris ut mala cuncta feras."

Professor Oswald Seidensticker, to whose papers in Der Deutsche Pioneer and that able periodical the Penn Monthly, of Philadelphia, I am indebted for many of the foregoing facts in regard to the German pilgrims of the New World, thus closes his notice of Pastorius:— "No tombstone, not even a record of burial, indicates where his remains have found their last resting-place, and the pardonable desire to associate the homage due to this distinguished man with some visible memento can not be gratified. There is no reason to suppose that he was interred in any other place than the Friends' old burying-ground in Germantown, though the fact is not attested by any definite source of information. After all, this obliteration of the last trace of his earthly existence is but typical of what has overtaken the times which he represents; that Germantown which he founded, which saw him live and move, is at present but a quaint idyl of the past, almost a myth, barely remembered and little cared for by the keener race that has succeeded. The Pilgrims of Plymouth have not lacked historian and poet. Justice has been done to their faith, courage, and self-sacrifice, and to the mighty influence of their endeavors to establish righteousness on the earth. The Quaker pilgrims of Pennsylvania, seeking the same object by different means, have not been equally fortunate. The power of their testimony for truth and holiness, peace and freedom, enforced only by what Milton calls "the unresistible might of meekness," has been felt through two centuries in the amelioration of penal severities, the abolition of slavery, the reform of the erring, the relief of the poor and suffering,—felt, in brief, in every step of human progress. But of the men themselves, with the single exception of William Penn, scarcely anything is known. Contrasted, from the outset, with the stern, aggressive Puritans of New England, they have come to be regarded as "a feeble folk," with a personality as doubtful as their unrecorded graves. They were not soldiers, like Miles Standish; they had no figure so picturesque as Vane, no leader so rashly brave and haughty as Endicott. No Cotton Mather wrote their Magnalia; they had no awful drama of supernaturalism in which Satan and his angels were actors; and the only witch mentioned in their simple annals was a poor old Swedish woman, who, on complaint of her countrywomen, was tried and acquitted of everything but imbecility and folly. Nothing but common-place offices of civility came to pass between them and the Indians; indeed, their enemies taunted them with the fact that the savages did not regard them as Christians, but just such men as themselves. Yet it must be apparent to every careful observer of the progress of American civilization that its two principal currents had their sources in the entirely opposite directions of the Puritan and Quaker colonies. To use the words of a late writer: [1] "The historical forces, with which no others may be compared in their influence on the people, have been those of the Puritan and the Quaker. The strength of the one was in the confession of an invisible Presence, a righteous, eternal Will, which would establish righteousness on earth; and thence arose the conviction of a direct personal responsibility, which could be tempted by no external splendor and could be shaken by no internal agitation, and could not be evaded or transferred. The strength of the other was the witness in the human spirit to an eternal Word, an Inner Voice which spoke to each alone, while yet it spoke to every man; a Light which each was to follow, and which yet was the light of the world; and all other voices were silent before this, and the solitary path whither it led was more sacred than the worn ways of cathedral-aisles." It will be sufficiently apparent to the reader that, in the poem which follows, I have attempted nothing beyond a study of the life and times of the Pennsylvania colonist,—a simple picture of a noteworthy man and his locality. The colors of my sketch are all very sober, toned down to the quiet and dreamy atmosphere through which its subject is visible. Whether, in the glare and tumult of the present time, such a picture will find favor may well be questioned. I only know that it has beguiled for me some hours of weariness, and that, whatever may be its measure of public appreciation, it has been to me its own reward." J. G. W. AMESBURY, 5th mo., 1872.

HAIL to posterity!

Hail, future men of Germanopolis!

Let the young generations yet to be

Look kindly upon this.

Think how your fathers left their native land,—

Dear German-land! O sacred hearths and homes!—

And, where the wild beast roams,

In patience planned

New forest-homes beyond the mighty sea,

There undisturbed and free

To live as brothers of one family.

What pains and cares befell,

What trials and what fears,

Remember, and wherein we have done well

Follow our footsteps, men of coming years!

Where we have failed to do

Aright, or wisely live,

Be warned by us, the better way pursue,

And, knowing we were human, even as you,

Pity us and forgive!

Farewell, Posterity!

Farewell, dear Germany

Forevermore farewell!

[From the Latin of Francis DANIEL PASTORIUS in the Germantown Records. 1688.]

PRELUDE.

I SING the Pilgrim of a softer clime

And milder speech than those brave men's who brought

To the ice and iron of our winter time

A will as firm, a creed as stern, and wrought

With one mailed hand, and with the other fought.

Simply, as fits my theme, in homely rhyme

I sing the blue-eyed German Spener taught,

Through whose veiled, mystic faith the Inward Light,

Steady and still, an easy brightness, shone,

Transfiguring all things in its radiance white.

The garland which his meekness never sought

I bring him; over fields of harvest sown

With seeds of blessing, now to ripeness grown,

I bid the sower pass before the reapers' sight.

. . . . . . . . . .

Never in tenderer quiet lapsed the day

From Pennsylvania's vales of spring away,

Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay

Along the wedded rivers. One long bar

Of purple cloud, on which the evening star

Shone like a jewel on a scimitar,

Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deep

Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep,

The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep.

All else was still. The oxen from their ploughs

Rested at last, and from their long day's browse

Came the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows.

And the young city, round whose virgin zone

The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown,

Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone,

Lay in the distance, lovely even then

With its fair women and its stately men

Gracing the forest court of William Penn,

Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames

Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims,

And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names.

Anna Pastorius down the leafy lane

Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune again

Her vines and simples, with a sigh of pain.

For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paled

In the oak clearing, and, as daylight failed,

Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed.

Again she looked: between green walls of shade,

With low-bent head as if with sorrow weighed,

Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said,

"God's peace be with thee, Anna!" Then he stood

Silent before her, wrestling with the mood

Of one who sees the evil and not good.

"What is it, my Pastorius?" As she spoke,

A slow, faint smile across his features broke,

Sadder than tears. "Dear heart," he said, "our folk

"Are even as others. Yea, our goodliest Friends

Are frail; our elders have their selfish ends,

And few dare trust the Lord to make amends

"For duty's loss. So even our feeble word

For the dumb slaves the startled meeting heard

As if a stone its quiet waters stirred;

"And, as the clerk ceased reading, there began

A ripple of dissent which downward ran

In widening circles, as from man to man.

"Somewhat was said of running before sent,

Of tender fear that some their guide outwent,

Troublers of Israel. I was scarce intent

"On hearing, for behind the reverend row

Of gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous show,

I saw, methought, dark faces full of woe.

"And, in the spirit, I was taken where

They toiled and suffered; I was made aware

Of shame and wrath and anguish and despair!

"And while the meeting smothered our poor plea

With cautious phrase, a Voice there seemed to be,

As ye have done to these ye do to me!'

"So it all passed; and the old tithe went on

Of anise, mint, and cumin, till the sun

Set, leaving still the weightier work undone.

"Help, for the good man faileth! Who is strong,

If these be weak? Who shall rebuke the wrong,

If these consent? How long, O Lord! how long!"

He ceased; and, bound in spirit with the bound,

With folded arms, and eyes that sought the ground,

Walked musingly his little garden round.

About him, beaded with the falling dew,

Rare plants of power and herbs of healing grew,

Such as Van Helmont and Agrippa knew.

For, by the lore of Gorlitz' gentle sage,

With the mild mystics of his dreamy age

He read the herbal signs of nature's page,

As once he heard in sweet Von Merlau's' bowers

Fair as herself, in boyhood's happy hours,

The pious Spener read his creed in flowers.

"The dear Lord give us patience!" said his wife,

Touching with finger-tip an aloe, rife

With leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec knife

Or Carib spear, a gift to William Penn

From the rare gardens of John Evelyn,

Brought from the Spanish Main by merchantmen.

"See this strange plant its steady purpose hold,

And, year by year, its patient leaves unfold,

Till the young eyes that watched it first are old.

"But some time, thou hast told me, there shall come

A sudden beauty, brightness, and perfume,

The century-moulded bud shall burst in bloom.

"So may the seed which hath been sown to-day

Grow with the years, and, after long delay,

Break into bloom, and God's eternal Yea!

"Answer at last the patient prayers of them

Who now, by faith alone, behold its stem

Crowned with the flowers of Freedom's diadem.

"Meanwhile, to feel and suffer, work and wait,

Remains for us. The wrong indeed is great,

But love and patience conquer soon or late."

"Well hast thou said, my Anna!" Tenderer

Than youth's caress upon the head of her

Pastorius laid his hand. "Shall we demur

"Because the vision tarrieth? In an hour

We dream not of, the slow-grown bud may flower,

And what was sown in weakness rise in power!"

Then through the vine-draped door whose legend read,

"Procul este profani!" Anna led

To where their child upon his little bed

Looked up and smiled. "Dear heart," she said, "if we

Must bearers of a heavy burden be,

Our boy, God willing, yet the day shall see

"When from the gallery to the farthest seat,

Slave and slave-owner shall no longer meet,

But all sit equal at the Master's feet."

On the stone hearth the blazing walnut block

Set the low walls a-glimmer, showed the cock

Rebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock,

Shone on old tomes of law and physic, side

By side with Fox and Belimen, played at hide

And seek with Anna, midst her household pride

Of flaxen webs, and on the table, bare

Of costly cloth or silver cup, but where,

Tasting the fat shads of the Delaware,

The courtly Penn had praised the goodwife's cheer,

And quoted Horace o'er her home brewed beer,

Till even grave Pastorius smiled to hear.

In such a home, beside the Schuylkill's wave,

He dwelt in peace with God and man, and gave

Food to the poor and shelter to the slave.

For all too soon the New World's scandal shamed

The righteous code by Penn and Sidney framed,

And men withheld the human rights they claimed.

And slowly wealth and station sanction lent,

And hardened avarice, on its gains intent,

Stifled the inward whisper of dissent.

Yet all the while the burden rested sore

On tender hearts. At last Pastorius bore

Their warning message to the Church's door

In God's name; and the leaven of the word

Wrought ever after in the souls who heard,

And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirred

To troubled life, and urged the vain excuse

Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use,

Good in itself if evil in abuse.

Gravely Pastorius listened, not the less

Discerning through the decent fig-leaf dress

Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness.

One Scripture rule, at least, was unforgot;

He hid the outcast, and betrayed him not;

And, when his prey the human hunter sought,

He scrupled not, while Anna's wise delay

And proffered cheer prolonged the master's stay,

To speed the black guest safely on his way.

Yet, who shall guess his bitter grief who lends

His life to some great cause, and finds his friends

Shame or betray it for their private ends?

How felt the Master when his chosen strove

In childish folly for their seats above;

And that fond mother, blinded by her love,

Besought him that her sons, beside his throne,

Might sit on either hand? Amidst his own

A stranger oft, companionless and lone,

God's priest and prophet stands. The martyr's pain

Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain;

Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train,

His weak disciples by their lives deny

The loud hosannas of their daily cry,

And make their echo of his truth a lie.

His forest home no hermit's cell he found,

Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around,

And held armed truce upon its neutral ground.

There Indian chiefs with battle-bows unstrung,

Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung,

Pastorius fancied, when the world was young,

Came with their tawny women, lithe and tall,

Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck's hall,

Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all.

There hungry folk in homespun drab and gray

Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day,

Genial, half merry in their friendly way.

Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland,

Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand

The New World's promise, sought his helping hand.

Or painful Kelpius [13] from his hermit den

By Wissahickon, maddest of good men,

Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.

Deep in the woods, where the small river slid

Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid,

Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid,

Reading the books of Daniel and of John,

And Behmen's Morning-Redness, through the Stone

Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone,

Whereby he read what man ne'er read before,

And saw the visions man shall see no more,

Till the great angel, striding sea and shore,

Shall bid all flesh await, on land or ships,

The warning trump of the Apocalypse,

Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.

Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin

Leaned o'er the gate; or Ranter, pure within,

Aired his perfection in a world of sin.

Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der Graaf

Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff,

Till the red embers broke into a laugh

And dance of flame, as if they fain would cheer

The rugged face, half tender, half austere,

Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear!

Or Sluyter, [14] saintly familist, whose word

As law the Brethren of the Manor heard,

Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord,

And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from his race,

Above a wrecked world with complacent face

Riding secure upon his plank of grace!

Haply, from Finland's birchen groves exiled,

Manly in thought, in simple ways a child,

His white hair floating round his visage mild,

The Swedish pastor sought the Quaker's door,

Pleased from his neighbor's lips to hear once more

His long-disused and half-forgotten lore.

For both could baffle Babel's lingual curse,

And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearse

Cleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding verse.

And oft Pastorius and the meek old man

Argued as Quaker and as Lutheran,

Ending in Christian love, as they began.

With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns he strayed

Where Sommerhausen over vales of shade

Looked miles away, by every flower delayed,

Or song of bird, happy and free with one

Who loved, like him, to let his memory run

Over old fields of learning, and to sun

Himself in Plato's wise philosophies,

And dream with Philo over mysteries

Whereof the dreamer never finds the keys;

To touch all themes of thought, nor weakly stop

For doubt of truth, but let the buckets drop

Deep down and bring the hidden waters up [15]

For there was freedom in that wakening time

Of tender souls; to differ was not crime;

The varying bells made up the perfect chime.

On lips unlike was laid the altar's coal,

The white, clear light, tradition-colored, stole

Through the stained oriel of each human soul.

Gathered from many sects, the Quaker brought

His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought

That moved his soul the creed his fathers taught.

One faith alone, so broad that all mankind

Within themselves its secret witness find,

The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind,

The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide,

Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied,

The polished Penn and Cromwell's Ironside.

As still in Hemskerck's Quaker Meeting, [16] face

By face in Flemish detail, we may trace

How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace

Sat in close contrast,—the clipt-headed churl,

Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl

By skirt of silk and periwig in curl

For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-trove

Made all men equal, none could rise above

Nor sink below that level of God's love.

So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,

The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown,

Pastorius to the manners of the town

Added the freedom of the woods, and sought

The bookless wisdom by experience taught,

And learned to love his new-found home, while not

Forgetful of the old; the seasons went

Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent

Of their own calm and measureless content.

Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing

His song of welcome to the Western spring,

And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.

And when the miracle of autumn came,

And all the woods with many-colored flame

Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame,

Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a sound

Spake to him from each kindled bush around,

And made the strange, new landscape holy ground

And when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift,

Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift,

He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift

Of verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hash

Of corn and beans in Indian succotash;

Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash

Of wit and fine conceit,—the good man's play

Of quiet fancies, meet to while away

The slow hours measuring off an idle day.

At evening, while his wife put on her look

Of love's endurance, from its niche he took

The written pages of his ponderous book.

And read, in half the languages of man,

His "Rusca Apium," which with bees began,

And through the gamut of creation ran.

Or, now and then, the missive of some friend

In gray Altorf or storied Nurnberg penned

Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend

The night beneath his roof-tree. Mystical

The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall

And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal

Human and sweet, as if each far, low tone,

Over the roses of her gardens blown

Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own.

Wise Spener questioned what his friend could trace

Of spiritual influx or of saving grace

In the wild natures of the Indian race.

And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look

From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch,

Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook,

To query with him of climatic change,

Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range,

Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.

And thus the Old and New World reached their hands

Across the water, and the friendly lands

Talked with each other from their severed strands.

Pastorius answered all: while seed and root

Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit

Along the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot;

And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knew

Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue,

And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew.

No idler he; whoever else might shirk,

He set his hand to every honest work,—

Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.

Still on the town seal his device is found,

Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground,

With "Vinum, Linum et Textrinum" wound.

One house sufficed for gospel and for law,

Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw,

Assured the good, and held the rest in awe.

Whatever legal maze he wandered through,

He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view,

And justice always into mercy grew.

No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor jail,

Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale

At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail,

The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land;

The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand,

And all men took his counsel for command.

Was it caressing air, the brooding love

Of tenderer skies than German land knew of,

Green calm below, blue quietness above,

Still flow of water, deep repose of wood

That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood

And childlike trust in the Eternal Good,

Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate,

Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait

The slow assurance of the better state?

Who knows what goadings in their sterner way

O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray,

Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?

What hate of heresy the east-wind woke?

What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke

In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?

Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn

The sectary yielded to the citizen,

And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.

Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung

The air to madness, and no steeple flung

Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.

The land slept well. The Indian from his face

Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place

Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,

Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,—

Giving to kindness what his native pride

And lazy freedom to all else denied.

And well the curious scholar loved the old

Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told

By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,

Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew

Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true

To God and man than half the creeds he knew.

The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled

Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold;

The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.

Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun

Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon

The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun.

About each rustic porch the humming-bird

Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred,

The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;

And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending

The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending,

Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending

To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine,

Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine,

And all the subtle scents the woods combine.

Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm,

Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm,

Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm

To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel

Of labor, winding off from memory's reel

A golden thread of music. With no peal

Of bells to call them to the house of praise,

The scattered settlers through green forest-ways

Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze

The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim

Shade of the alders on the rivulet's rim,

Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him.

There, through the gathered stillness multiplied

And made intense by sympathy, outside

The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,

A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume

Breathed through the open windows of the room

From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom.

Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors came,

Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame,

Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame,

Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread

In Indian isles; pale women who had bled

Under the hangman's lash, and bravely said

God's message through their prison's iron bars;

And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars

From every stricken field of England's wars.

Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt

Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt

On his moved lips the seal of silence melt.

Or, without spoken words, low breathings stole

Of a diviner life from soul to soul,

Baptizing in one tender thought the whole.

When shaken hands announced the meeting o'er,

The friendly group still lingered at the door,

Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store

Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maid

Down the green vistas of the woodland strayed,

Whispered and smiled and oft their feet delayed.

Did the boy's whistle answer back the thrushes?

Did light girl laughter ripple through the bushes,

As brooks make merry over roots and rushes?

Unvexed the sweet air seemed. Without a wound

The ear of silence heard, and every sound

Its place in nature's fine accordance found.

And solemn meeting, summer sky and wood,

Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood

Seemed, like God's new creation, very good!

And, greeting all with quiet smile and word,

Pastorius went his way. The unscared bird

Sang at his side; scarcely the squirrel stirred

At his hushed footstep on the mossy sod;

And, wheresoe'er the good man looked or trod,

He felt the peace of nature and of God.

His social life wore no ascetic form,

He loved all beauty, without fear of harm,

And in his veins his Teuton blood ran warm.

Strict to himself, of other men no spy,

He made his own no circuit-judge to try

The freer conscience of his neighbors by.

With love rebuking, by his life alone,

Gracious and sweet, the better way was shown,

The joy of one, who, seeking not his own,

And faithful to all scruples, finds at last

The thorns and shards of duty overpast,

And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast,

Pleasant and beautiful with sight and sound,

And flowers upspringing in its narrow round,

And all his days with quiet gladness crowned.

He sang not; but, if sometimes tempted strong,

He hummed what seemed like Altorf's Burschen-song;

His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong.

For well he loved his boyhood's brother band;

His Memory, while he trod the New World's strand,

A double-ganger walked the Fatherland

If, when on frosty Christmas eves the light

Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight

Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white;

And closed his eyes, and listened to the sweet

Old wait-songs sounding down his native street,

And watched again the dancers' mingling feet;

Yet not the less, when once the vision passed,

He held the plain and sober maxims fast

Of the dear Friends with whom his lot was cast.

Still all attuned to nature's melodies,

He loved the bird's song in his dooryard trees,

And the low hum of home-returning bees;

The blossomed flax, the tulip-trees in bloom

Down the long street, the beauty and perfume

Of apple-boughs, the mingling light and gloom

Of Sommerhausen's woodlands, woven through

With sun—threads; and the music the wind drew,

Mournful and sweet, from leaves it overblew.

And evermore, beneath this outward sense,

And through the common sequence of events,

He felt the guiding hand of Providence

Reach out of space. A Voice spake in his ear,

And to all other voices far and near

Died at that whisper, full of meanings clear.

The Light of Life shone round him; one by one

The wandering lights, that all-misleading run,

Went out like candles paling in the sun.

That Light he followed, step by step, where'er

It led, as in the vision of the seer

The wheels moved as the spirit in the clear

And terrible crystal moved, with all their eyes

Watching the living splendor sink or rise,

Its will their will, knowing no otherwise.

Within himself he found the law of right,

He walked by faith and not the letter's sight,

And read his Bible by the Inward Light.

And if sometimes the slaves of form and rule,

Frozen in their creeds like fish in winter's pool,

Tried the large tolerance of his liberal school,

His door was free to men of every name,

He welcomed all the seeking souls who came,

And no man's faith he made a cause of blame.

But best he loved in leisure hours to see

His own dear Friends sit by him knee to knee,

In social converse, genial, frank, and free.

There sometimes silence (it were hard to tell

Who owned it first) upon the circle fell,

Hushed Anna's busy wheel, and laid its spell

On the black boy who grimaced by the hearth,

To solemnize his shining face of mirth;

Only the old clock ticked amidst the dearth

Of sound; nor eye was raised nor hand was stirred

In that soul-sabbath, till at last some word

Of tender counsel or low prayer was heard.

Then guests, who lingered but farewell to say

And take love's message, went their homeward way;

So passed in peace the guileless Quaker's day.

His was the Christian's unsung Age of Gold,

A truer idyl than the bards have told

Of Arno's banks or Arcady of old.

Where still the Friends their place of burial keep,

And century-rooted mosses o'er it creep,

The Nurnberg scholar and his helpmeet sleep.

And Anna's aloe? If it flowered at last

In Bartram's garden, did John Woolman cast

A glance upon it as he meekly passed?

And did a secret sympathy possess

That tender soul, and for the slave's redress

Lend hope, strength, patience? It were vain to

guess.

Nay, were the plant itself but mythical,

Set in the fresco of tradition's wall

Like Jotham's bramble, mattereth not at all.

Enough to know that, through the winter's frost

And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost,

And every duty pays at last its cost.

For, ere Pastorius left the sun and air,

God sent the answer to his life-long prayer;

The child was born beside the Delaware,

Who, in the power a holy purpose lends,

Guided his people unto nobler ends,

And left them worthier of the name of Friends.

And to! the fulness of the time has come,

And over all the exile's Western home,

From sea to sea the flowers of freedom bloom!

And joy-bells ring, and silver trumpets blow;

But not for thee, Pastorius! Even so

The world forgets, but the wise angels know.

KING VOLMER AND ELSIE. AFTER THE DANISH OF CHRISTIAN WINTER.

WHERE, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones

of the Horg,

In its little Christian city stands the church of

Vordingborg,

In merry mood King Volmer sat, forgetful of his

power,

As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his

tower.

Out spake the King to Henrik, his young and faithful

squire

"Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid of thy

desire?"

"Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only me

As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee."

Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow shall bring

another day, [18]

When I myself will test her; she will not say me

nay."

Thereat the lords and gallants, that round about

him stood,

Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as

courtiers should.

The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on the

ancient town

From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose

looks down;

The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of

morn,

The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare

of hunter's horn.

In the garden of her father little Elsie sits and

spins,

And, singing with the early birds, her daily task,

begins.

Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her

garden-bower,

But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than

the flower.

About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, white As snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, round wrists in sight; Below, the modest petticoat can only half conceal The motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a wheel.

The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in

sunshine warm;

But, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades

it with her arm.

And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of

dog and horn,

Come leaping o'er the ditches, come trampling

down the corn!

Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume

streamed gay,

As fast beside her father's gate the riders held

their way;

And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden

spur on heel,

And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden

checked her wheel.

"All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me! For weary months in secret my heart has longed for thee!" What noble knight was this? What words for modest maiden's ear? She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and fear.

She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would

seek the door,

Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes

crimsoned o'er.

"Nay, fear me not," the rider said, "I offer heart

and hand,

Bear witness these good Danish knights who round

about me stand.

"I grant you time to think of this, to answer as

you may,

For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day."

He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round

his train,

He saw his merry followers seek to hide their

smiles in vain.

"The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your curls of

golden hair,

I'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you

wear;

All precious gems shall twine your neck; and in

a chariot gay

You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steeds

of gray.

"And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and

brazen lamps shall glow;

On marble floors your feet shall weave the dances

to and fro.

At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall

shine,

While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink

the blood-red wine."

Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer face

to face;

A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip

found place.

Back from her low white forehead the curls of

gold she threw,

And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and

blue.

"I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight;

I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn

to slight.

If you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, not

a lord;

I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty

sword."

"To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadel

away,

And in its place will swing the scythe and mow

your father's hay."

"Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can

never bear;

A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you

must wear."

"Well, Vadmal will I wear for you," the rider

gayly spoke,

"And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay my scarlet

cloak."

"But mark," she said, "no stately horse my peasant

love must ride,

A yoke of steers before the plough is all that he

must guide."

The knight looked down upon his steed: "Well,

let him wander free

No other man must ride the horse that has been

backed by me.

Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to my oxen

talk,

If only little Elsie beside my plough will walk."

"You must take from out your cellar cask of wine

and flask and can;

The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant.

man."

"Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink that mead

of thine,

And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drain

my generous wine."

"Now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign

and boss,

Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly

knee across.

And pull me down your castle from top to basement

wall,

And let your plough trace furrows in the ruins of

your hall!"

Then smiled he with a lofty pride; right well at

last he knew

The maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth.

plight true.

"Ah, roguish little Elsie! you act your part full

well

You know that I must bear my shield and in my

castle dwell!

"The lions ramping on that shield between the

hearts aflame

Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard her

ancient name.

"For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yonder

towers,

Who ploughs them ploughs up Denmark, this

goodly home of ours'.

"I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I know

is true;

Would God that all our maidens were good and

pure as you!

Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall

well repay;

God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bring

another day!"

He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good

steed then,

And like a whirl-blast swept away with all his

gallant men.

The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on

winds of morn

The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare

of hunter's horn.

"Thou true and ever faithful!" the listening

Henrik cried;

And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood by

Elsie's side.

None saw the fond embracing, save, shining from

afar,

The Golden Goose that watched them from the

tower of Valdemar.

O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowers

that throng

Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you my

song.

No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer's

skill;

Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land has

plenty still!

1872.

THE THREE BELLS.

BENEATH the low-hung night cloud

That raked her splintering mast

The good ship settled slowly,

The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean

Her signal guns pealed out.

Dear God! was that Thy answer

From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind,

"Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry

"Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow

Shall lay till daylight by!"

Hour after hour crept slowly,

Yet on the heaving swells

Tossed up and down the ship-lights,

The lights of the Three Bells!

And ship to ship made signals,

Man answered back to man,

While oft, to cheer and hearten,

The Three Bells nearer ran;

And the captain from her taffrail

Sent down his hopeful cry

"Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted;

"The Three Bells shall lay by!"

All night across the waters

The tossing lights shone clear;

All night from reeling taffrail

The Three Bells sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches

Of storm and darkness passed,

Just as the wreck lurched under,

All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, Three Bells, forever,

In grateful memory sail!

Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,

Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal,

Repeat the Master's cry,

As tossing through our darkness

The lights of God draw nigh!

1872.

JOHN UNDERHILL.

A SCORE of years had come and gone

Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone,

When Captain Underhill, bearing scars

From Indian ambush and Flemish wars,

Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down,

East by north, to Cocheco town.

With Vane the younger, in counsel sweet,

He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet,

And, when the bolt of banishment fell

On the head of his saintly oracle,

He had shared her ill as her good report,

And braved the wrath of the General Court.

He shook from his feet as he rode away

The dust of the Massachusetts Bay.

The world might bless and the world might ban,

What did it matter the perfect man,

To whom the freedom of earth was given,

Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?

He cheered his heart as he rode along

With screed of Scripture and holy song,

Or thought how he rode with his lances free

By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee,

Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road,

And Hilton Point in the distance showed.

He saw the church with the block-house nigh,

The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby,

And, tacking to windward, low and crank,

The little shallop from Strawberry Bank;

And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad

Over land and water, and praised the Lord.

Goodly and stately and grave to see,

Into the clearing's space rode he,

With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath,

And his silver buckles and spurs beneath,

And the settlers welcomed him, one and all,

From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.

And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come

As the way seemed open to seek a home.

Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands

In the Narragansett and Netherlands,

And if here ye have work for a Christian man,

I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.

"I boast not of gifts, but fain would own

The wonderful favor God hath shown,

The special mercy vouchsafed one day

On the shore of Narragansett Bay,

As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside,

And mused like Isaac at eventide.

"A sudden sweetness of peace I found,

A garment of gladness wrapped me round;

I felt from the law of works released,

The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased,

My faith to a full assurance grew,

And all I had hoped for myself I knew.

"Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way,

I shall not stumble, I shall not stray;

He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress,

I wear the robe of His righteousness;

And the shafts of Satan no more avail

Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."

"Tarry with us," the settlers cried,

"Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide."

And Captain Underhill bowed his head.

"The will of the Lord be done!" he said.

And the morrow beheld him sitting down

In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.

And he judged therein as a just man should;

His words were wise and his rule was good;

He coveted not his neighbor's land,

From the holding of bribes he shook his hand;

And through the camps of the heathen ran

A wholesome fear of the valiant man.

But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith,

And life hath ever a savor of death.

Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls,

And whoso thinketh he standeth falls.

Alas! ere their round the seasons ran,

There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.

The tempter's arrows that rarely fail

Had found the joints of his spiritual mail;

And men took note of his gloomy air,

The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer,

The signs of a battle lost within,

The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.

Then a whisper of scandal linked his name

With broken vows and a life of blame;

And the people looked askance on him

As he walked among them sullen and grim,

Ill at ease, and bitter of word,

And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.

None knew how, with prayer and fasting still,

He strove in the bonds of his evil will;

But he shook himself like Samson at length,

And girded anew his loins of strength,

And bade the crier go up and down

And call together the wondering town.

Jeer and murmur and shaking of head

Ceased as he rose in his place and said

"Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know

How I came among you a year ago,

Strong in the faith that my soul was freed

From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.

"I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame,

But not with a lie on my lips I came.

In my blindness I verily thought my heart

Swept and garnished in every part.

He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees

The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?

"I urge no plea. At your feet I lay

The trust you gave me, and go my way.

Hate me or pity me, as you will,

The Lord will have mercy on sinners still;

And I, who am chiefest, say to all,

Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."

No voice made answer: a sob so low

That only his quickened ear could know

Smote his heart with a bitter pain,

As into the forest he rode again,

And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down

On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.

Crystal-clear on the man of sin

The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in;

On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew,

The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew,

And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise

Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.

Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze

Sang in their saddest of minor keys?

What was it the mournful wood-thrush said?

What whispered the pine-trees overhead?

Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way

That Adam heard in the cool of day?

Into the desert alone rode he,

Alone with the Infinite Purity;

And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke,

As Peter did to the Master's look,

He measured his path with prayers of pain

For peace with God and nature again.

And in after years to Cocheco came

The bruit of a once familiar name;

How among the Dutch of New Netherlands,

From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands,

A penitent soldier preached the Word,

And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!

And the heart of Boston was glad to hear

How he harried the foe on the long frontier,

And heaped on the land against him barred

The coals of his generous watch and ward.

Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still

Counts with her worthies John Underhill.

1873.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.

A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut railway, May 9, 1873.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his name

Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,

Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,

Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood

To do the utmost that a brave man could,

And die, if needful, as a true man should.

Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears

On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,

Lost in the strength and glory of his years.

What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,

Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again

"Put out the signals for the other train!"

No nobler utterance since the world began

From lips of saint or martyr ever ran,

Electric, through the sympathies of man.

Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this

The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness,

Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!

Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain

That last brave act of failing tongue and brain

Freighted with life the downward rushing train,

Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,

Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.

Others he saved, himself he could not save.

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead

Who in his record still the earth shall tread

With God's clear aureole shining round his head.

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride

Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.

God give us grace to live as Bradley died!

1873.

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

The house is still standing in Danvers, Mass., where, it is said, a suspected witch was confined overnight in the attic, which was bolted fast. In the morning when the constable came to take her to Salem for trial she was missing, although the door was still bolted. Her escape was doubtless aided by her friends, but at the time it was attributed to Satanic interference.

I.

ALONG Crane River's sunny slopes

Blew warm the winds of May,

And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks

The green outgrew the gray.

The grass was green on Rial-side,

The early birds at will

Waked up the violet in its dell,

The wind-flower on its hill.

"Where go you, in your Sunday coat,

Son Andrew, tell me, pray."

For striped perch in Wenham Lake

I go to fish to-day."

"Unharmed of thee in Wenham Lake

The mottled perch shall be

A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank

And weaves her net for thee.

"She weaves her golden hair; she sings

Her spell-song low and faint;

The wickedest witch in Salem jail

Is to that girl a saint."

"Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue;

God knows," the young man cried,

"He never made a whiter soul

Than hers by Wenham side.

"She tends her mother sick and blind,

And every want supplies;

To her above the blessed Book

She lends her soft blue eyes.

"Her voice is glad with holy songs,

Her lips are sweet with prayer;

Go where you will, in ten miles round

Is none more good and fair."

"Son Andrew, for the love of God

And of thy mother, stay!"

She clasped her hands, she wept aloud,

But Andrew rode away.

"O reverend sir, my Andrew's soul

The Wenham witch has caught;

She holds him with the curled gold

Whereof her snare is wrought.

"She charms him with her great blue eyes,

She binds him with her hair;

Oh, break the spell with holy words,

Unbind him with a prayer!"

"Take heart," the painful preacher said,

"This mischief shall not be;

The witch shall perish in her sins

And Andrew shall go free.

"Our poor Ann Putnam testifies

She saw her weave a spell,

Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon,

Around a dried-up well.

"'Spring up, O well!' she softly sang

The Hebrew's old refrain

(For Satan uses Bible words),

Till water flowed a-main.

"And many a goodwife heard her speak

By Wenham water words

That made the buttercups take wings

And turn to yellow birds.

"They say that swarming wild bees seek

The hive at her command;

And fishes swim to take their food

From out her dainty hand.

"Meek as she sits in meeting-time,

The godly minister

Notes well the spell that doth compel

The young men's eyes to her.

"The mole upon her dimpled chin

Is Satan's seal and sign;

Her lips are red with evil bread

And stain of unblest wine.

"For Tituba, my Indian, saith

At Quasycung she took

The Black Man's godless sacrament

And signed his dreadful book.

"Last night my sore-afflicted child

Against the young witch cried.

To take her Marshal Herrick rides

Even now to Wenham side."

The marshal in his saddle sat,

His daughter at his knee;

"I go to fetch that arrant witch,

Thy fair playmate," quoth he.

"Her spectre walks the parsonage,

And haunts both hall and stair;

They know her by the great blue eyes

And floating gold of hair."

"They lie, they lie, my father dear!

No foul old witch is she,

But sweet and good and crystal-pure

As Wenham waters be."

"I tell thee, child, the Lord hath set

Before us good and ill,

And woe to all whose carnal loves

Oppose His righteous will.

"Between Him and the powers of hell

Choose thou, my child, to-day

No sparing hand, no pitying eye,

When God commands to slay!"

He went his way; the old wives shook

With fear as he drew nigh;

The children in the dooryards held

Their breath as he passed by.

Too well they knew the gaunt gray horse

The grim witch-hunter rode

The pale Apocalyptic beast

By grisly Death bestrode.

II.

Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake

Upon the young girl's shone,

Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes,

Her yellow hair outblown.

By happy youth and love attuned

To natural harmonies,

The singing birds, the whispering wind,

She sat beneath the trees.

Sat shaping for her bridal dress

Her mother's wedding gown,

When lo! the marshal, writ in hand,

From Alford hill rode down.

His face was hard with cruel fear,

He grasped the maiden's hands

"Come with me unto Salem town,

For so the law commands!"

"Oh, let me to my mother say

Farewell before I go!"

He closer tied her little hands

Unto his saddle bow.

"Unhand me," cried she piteously,

"For thy sweet daughter's sake."

"I'll keep my daughter safe," he said,

"From the witch of Wenham Lake."

"Oh, leave me for my mother's sake,

She needs my eyes to see."

"Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck

From off the gallows-tree."

He bore her to a farm-house old,

And up its stairway long,

And closed on her the garret-door

With iron bolted strong.

The day died out, the night came down

Her evening prayer she said,

While, through the dark, strange faces seemed

To mock her as she prayed.

The present horror deepened all

The fears her childhood knew;

The awe wherewith the air was filled

With every breath she drew.

And could it be, she trembling asked,

Some secret thought or sin

Had shut good angels from her heart

And let the bad ones in?

Had she in some forgotten dream

Let go her hold on Heaven,

And sold herself unwittingly

To spirits unforgiven?

Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed;

No human sound she heard,

But up and down the chimney stack

The swallows moaned and stirred.

And o'er her, with a dread surmise

Of evil sight and sound,

The blind bats on their leathern wings

Went wheeling round and round.

Low hanging in the midnight sky

Looked in a half-faced moon.

Was it a dream, or did she hear

Her lover's whistled tune?

She forced the oaken scuttle back;

A whisper reached her ear

"Slide down the roof to me," it said,

"So softly none may hear."

She slid along the sloping roof

Till from its eaves she hung,

And felt the loosened shingles yield

To which her fingers clung.

Below, her lover stretched his hands

And touched her feet so small;

"Drop down to me, dear heart," he said,

"My arms shall break the fall."

He set her on his pillion soft,

Her arms about him twined;

And, noiseless as if velvet-shod,

They left the house behind.

But when they reached the open way,

Full free the rein he cast;

Oh, never through the mirk midnight

Rode man and maid more fast.

Along the wild wood-paths they sped,

The bridgeless streams they swam;

At set of moon they passed the Bass,

At sunrise Agawam.

At high noon on the Merrimac

The ancient ferryman

Forgot, at times, his idle oars,

So fair a freight to scan.

And when from off his grounded boat

He saw them mount and ride,

"God keep her from the evil eye,

And harm of witch!" he cried.

The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh

At all its fears gone by;

"He does not know," she whispered low,

"A little witch am I."

All day he urged his weary horse,

And, in the red sundown,

Drew rein before a friendly door

In distant Berwick town.

A fellow-feeling for the wronged

The Quaker people felt;

And safe beside their kindly hearths

The hunted maiden dwelt,

Until from off its breast the land

The haunting horror threw,

And hatred, born of ghastly dreams,

To shame and pity grew.

Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad

Its golden summer day,

But blithe and glad its withered fields,

And skies of ashen gray;

For spell and charm had power no more,

The spectres ceased to roam,

And scattered households knelt again

Around the hearths of home.

And when once more by Beaver Dam

The meadow-lark outsang,

And once again on all the hills

The early violets sprang,

And all the windy pasture slopes

Lay green within the arms

Of creeks that bore the salted sea

To pleasant inland farms,

The smith filed off the chains he forged,

The jail-bolts backward fell;

And youth and hoary age came forth

Like souls escaped from hell.

1877

KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS

OUT from Jerusalem

The king rode with his great

War chiefs and lords of state,

And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal,

To whom, perchance, belongs

That wondrous Song of songs,

Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn

In fond, ecstatic dream,

And through its earth-born theme

The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun,

In gold and purple sheen,

The dusky Ethiop queen

Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew

The languages of all

The creatures great or small

That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led

The king's path, and he heard

Its small folk, and their word

He thus interpreted:

"Here comes the king men greet

As wise and good and just,

To crush us in the dust

Under his heedless feet."

The great king bowed his head,

And saw the wide surprise

Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes

As he told her what they said.

"O king!" she whispered sweet,

"Too happy fate have they

Who perish in thy way

Beneath thy gracious feet!

"Thou of the God-lent crown,

Shall these vile creatures dare

Murmur against thee where

The knees of kings kneel down?"

"Nay," Solomon replied,

"The wise and strong should seek

The welfare of the weak,"

And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm,

Curved with their leader round

The ant-hill's peopled mound,

And left it free from harm.

The jewelled head bent low;

"O king!" she said, "henceforth

The secret of thy worth

And wisdom well I know.

"Happy must be the State

Whose ruler heedeth more

The murmurs of the poor

Than flatteries of the great."

1877.

IN THE "OLD SOUTH."

On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered "a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes."

SHE came and stood in the Old South Church,

A wonder and a sign,

With a look the old-time sibyls wore,

Half-crazed and half-divine.

Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound,

Unclothed as the primal mother,

With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed

With a fire she dare not smother.

Loose on her shoulders fell her hair,

With sprinkled ashes gray;

She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird

As a soul at the judgment day.

And the minister paused in his sermon's midst,

And the people held their breath,

For these were the words the maiden spoke

Through lips as the lips of death:

"Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet

All men my courts shall tread,

And priest and ruler no more shall eat

My people up like bread!

"Repent! repent! ere the Lord shall speak

In thunder and breaking seals

Let all souls worship Him in the way

His light within reveals."

She shook the dust from her naked feet,

And her sackcloth closer drew,

And into the porch of the awe-hushed church

She passed like a ghost from view.

They whipped her away at the tail o' the cart

Through half the streets of the town,

But the words she uttered that day nor fire

Could burn nor water drown.

And now the aisles of the ancient church

By equal feet are trod,

And the bell that swings in its belfry rings

Freedom to worship God!

And now whenever a wrong is done

It thrills the conscious walls;

The stone from the basement cries aloud

And the beam from the timber calls.

There are steeple-houses on every hand,

And pulpits that bless and ban,

And the Lord will not grudge the single church

That is set apart for man.

For in two commandments are all the law

And the prophets under the sun,

And the first is last and the last is first,

And the twain are verily one.

So, long as Boston shall Boston be,

And her bay-tides rise and fall,

Shall freedom stand in the Old South Church

And plead for the rights of all!

1877.

THE HENCHMAN.

MY lady walks her morning round,

My lady's page her fleet greyhound,

My lady's hair the fond winds stir,

And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,

And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;

But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird,

Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers;

The least of all her worshippers,

The dust beneath her dainty heel,

She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm!—she cannot know

Where'er she goes with her I go;

Oh, cold and fair!—she cannot guess

I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,

I rob their ears of her sweet talk;

Her suitors come from east and west,

I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words,

I greet her with the song of birds;

I reach her with her green-armed bowers,

I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail,

The wind and I uplift her veil;

As if the calm, cold moon she were,

And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share

The license of the sun and air,

And in a common homage hide

My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near,

I breathe her charmed atmosphere,

Wherein to her my service brings

The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name,

My dumb devotion shall not shame;

The love that no return doth crave

To knightly levels lifts the slave,

No lance have I, in joust or fight,

To splinter in my lady's sight

But, at her feet, how blest were I

For any need of hers to die!

1877.

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK.

E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. "When a Ho or Munda," he says, "has been burned on the funeral pile, collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man's favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the aborigines of India." In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, vol. ix., p. 795, is a Ho dirge.

WE have opened the door,

Once, twice, thrice!

We have swept the floor,

We have boiled the rice.

Come hither, come hither!

Come from the far lands,

Come from the star lands,

Come as before!

We lived long together,

We loved one another;

Come back to our life.

Come father, come mother,

Come sister and brother,

Child, husband, and wife,

For you we are sighing.

Come take your old places,

Come look in our faces,

The dead on the dying,

Come home!

We have opened the door,

Once, twice, thrice!

We have kindled the coals,

And we boil the rice

For the feast of souls.

Come hither, come hither!

Think not we fear you,

Whose hearts are so near you.

Come tenderly thought on,

Come all unforgotten,

Come from the shadow-lands,

From the dim meadow-lands

Where the pale grasses bend

Low to our sighing.

Come father, come mother,

Come sister and brother,

Come husband and friend,

The dead to the dying,

Come home!

We have opened the door

You entered so oft;

For the feast of souls

We have kindled the coals,

And we boil the rice soft.

Come you who are dearest

To us who are nearest,

Come hither, come hither,

From out the wild weather;

The storm clouds are flying,

The peepul is sighing;

Come in from the rain.

Come father, come mother,

Come sister and brother,

Come husband and lover,

Beneath our roof-cover.

Look on us again,

The dead on the dying,

Come home!

We have opened the door!

For the feast of souls

We have kindled the coals

We may kindle no more!

Snake, fever, and famine,

The curse of the Brahmin,

The sun and the dew,

They burn us, they bite us,

They waste us and smite us;

Our days are but few

In strange lands far yonder

To wonder and wander

We hasten to you.

List then to our sighing,

While yet we are here

Nor seeing nor hearing,

We wait without fearing,

To feel you draw near.

O dead, to the dying

Come home!

1879.

THE KHAN'S DEVIL.

THE Khan came from Bokhara town

To Hamza, santon of renown.

"My head is sick, my hands are weak;

Thy help, O holy man, I seek."

In silence marking for a space

The Khan's red eyes and purple face,

Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread,

"Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said.

"Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan.

Rid me of him at once, O man!"

"Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mine

Can slay that cursed thing of thine.

"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink

Water of healing on the brink

"Where clear and cold from mountain snows,

The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.

"Six moons remain, then come to me;

May Allah's pity go with thee!"

Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan

Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.

Roots were his food, the desert dust

His bed, the water quenched his thirst;

And when the sixth moon's scimetar

Curved sharp above the evening star,

He sought again the santon's door,

Not weak and trembling as before,

But strong of limb and clear of brain;

"Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain."

"Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned,

The curst one lies in death-like swound.

"But evil breaks the strongest gyves,

And jins like him have charmed lives.

"One beaker of the juice of grape

May call him up in living shape.

"When the red wine of Badakshan

Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan,

"With water quench the fire within,

And drown each day thy devilkin!"

Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cup

As Shitan's own, though offered up,

With laughing eyes and jewelled hands,

By Yarkand's maids and Samarcand's.

And, in the lofty vestibule

Of the medress of Kaush Kodul,

The students of the holy law

A golden-lettered tablet saw,

With these words, by a cunning hand,

Graved on it at the Khan's command:

"In Allah's name, to him who hath

A devil, Khan el Hamed saith,

"Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine

The fiend that loves the breath of wine,

"No prayer can slay, no marabout

Nor Meccan dervis can drive out.

"I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm

That robs him of his power to harm.

"Drown him, O Islam's child! the spell To save thee lies in tank and well!" 1879.

THE KING'S MISSIVE. 1661.

This ballad, originally written for The Memorial History of Boston, describes, with pardonable poetic license, a memorable incident in the annals of the city. The interview between Shattuck and the Governor took place, I have since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not in the Council Chamber. The publication of the ballad led to some discussion as to the historical truthfulness of the picture, but I have seen no reason to rub out any of the figures or alter the lines and colors.

UNDER the great hill sloping bare

To cove and meadow and Common lot,

In his council chamber and oaken chair,

Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.

A grave, strong man, who knew no peer

In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear

Of God, not man, and for good or ill

Held his trust with an iron will.

He had shorn with his sword the cross from out

The flag, and cloven the May-pole down,

Harried the heathen round about,

And whipped the Quakers from town to town.

Earnest and honest, a man at need

To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed,

He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal

The gate of the holy common weal.

His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,

With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath;

"Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn

The pestilent Quakers are in my path!

Some we have scourged, and banished some,

Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come,

Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,

Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.

"Did we count on this? Did we leave behind

The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease

Of our English hearths and homes, to find

Troublers of Israel such as these?

Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid!

I will do as the prophet to Agag did

They come to poison the wells of the Word,

I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"

The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk

Entered, and whispered under breath,

"There waits below for the hangman's work

A fellow banished on pain of death—

Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,

Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship

At anchor here in a Christian port,

With freight of the devil and all his sort!"

Twice and thrice on the chamber floor

Striding fiercely from wall to wall,

"The Lord do so to me and more,"

The Governor cried, "if I hang not all!

Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate,

With the look of a man at ease with fate,

Into that presence grim and dread

Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand

Smote down the offence; but the wearer said,

With a quiet smile, "By the king's command

I bear his message and stand in his stead."

In the Governor's hand a missive he laid

With the royal arms on its seal displayed,

And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat,

Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,—

"The king commandeth your friends' release;

Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although

To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase.

What he here enjoineth, John Endicott,

His loyal servant, questioneth not.

You are free! God grant the spirit you own

May take you from us to parts unknown."

So the door of the jail was open cast,

And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den

Tender youth and girlhood passed,

With age-bowed women and gray-locked men.

And the voice of one appointed to die

Was lifted in praise and thanks on high,

And the little maid from New Netherlands

Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.

And one, whose call was to minister

To the souls in prison, beside him went,

An ancient woman, bearing with her

The linen shroud for his burial meant.

For she, not counting her own life dear,

In the strength of a love that cast out fear,

Had watched and served where her brethren died,

Like those who waited the cross beside.

One moment they paused on their way to look

On the martyr graves by the Common side,

And much scourged Wharton of Salem took

His burden of prophecy up and cried

"Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain

Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain;

Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned,

With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

The autumn haze lay soft and still

On wood and meadow and upland farms;

On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill

Slowly and lazily swung its arms;

Broad in the sunshine stretched away,

With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay;

And over water and dusk of pines

Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed,

The sumach added its crimson fleck,

And double in air and water showed

The tinted maples along the Neck;

Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist,

And gentian fringes of amethyst,

And royal plumes of golden-rod,

The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw

The world about them; they only thought

With deep thanksgiving and pious awe

On the great deliverance God had wrought.

Through lane and alley the gazing town

Noisily followed them up and down;

Some with scoffing and brutal jeer,

Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din.

Upsall, gray with his length of days,

Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn

"Men of Boston, give God the praise

No more shall innocent blood call down

The bolts of wrath on your guilty town.

The freedom of worship, dear to you,

Is dear to all, and to all is due.

"I see the vision of days to come,

When your beautiful City of the Bay

Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home,

And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay.

The varying notes of worship shall blend

And as one great prayer to God ascend,

And hands of mutual charity raise

Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston town,

Whose painful ministers sighed to see

The walls of their sheep-fold falling down,

And wolves of heresy prowling free.

But the years went on, and brought no wrong;

With milder counsels the State grew strong,

As outward Letter and inward Light

Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit perishing not,

To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,

And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot

That severed the chains of a continent.

With its gentler mission of peace and good-will

The thought of the Quaker is living still,

And the freedom of soul he prophesied

Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.

1880.

VALUATION.

THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate,

And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by,

"In spite of my bank stock and real estate,

You are better off, Deacon, than I.

"We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near,

You have less of this world to resign,

But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear,

Will reckon up greater than mine.

"They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor,

I wish I could swap with you even

The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store

For the shillings and pence you have given."

"Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewd

common sense,

While his eye had a twinkle of fun,

"Let your pounds take the way of my shillings

and pence,

And the thing can be easily done!"

1880.

RABBI ISHMAEL.

"Rabbi Ishmael Ben Elisha said, Once, I entered into the Holy of Holies [as High Priest] to burn incense, when I saw Aktriel [the Divine Crown] Jah, Lord of Hosts, sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, who said unto me, 'Ishmael, my son, bless me.' I answered, 'May it please Thee to make Thy compassion prevail over Thine anger; may it be revealed above Thy other attributes; mayest Thou deal with Thy children according to it, and not according to the strict measure of judgment.' It seemed to me that He bowed His head, as though to answer Amen to my blessing."— Talmud (Beraehoth, I. f. 6. b.)

THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin

Of the world heavy upon him, entering in

The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face

With terrible splendor filling all the place.

"O Ishmael Ben Elisha!" said a voice,

"What seekest thou? What blessing is thy choice?"

And, knowing that he stood before the Lord,

Within the shadow of the cherubim,

Wide-winged between the blinding light and him,

He bowed himself, and uttered not a word,

But in the silence of his soul was prayer

"O Thou Eternal! I am one of all,

And nothing ask that others may not share.

Thou art almighty; we are weak and small,

And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!"

Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the place

Of the insufferable glory, lo! a face

Of more than mortal tenderness, that bent

Graciously down in token of assent,

And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate,

The wondering Rabbi sought the temple's gate.

Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stood

And cried aloud unto the multitude

"O Israel, hear! The Lord our God is good!

Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace;

Beyond his judgments shall his love endure;

The mercy of the All Merciful is sure!"

1881.

THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE.

H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula (ii. 166) mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the poem.

A DREAR and desolate shore!

Where no tree unfolds its leaves,

And never the spring wind weaves

Green grass for the hunter's tread;

A land forsaken and dead,

Where the ghostly icebergs go

And come with the ebb and flow

Of the waters of Bradore!

A wanderer, from a land

By summer breezes fanned,

Looked round him, awed, subdued,

By the dreadful solitude,

Hearing alone the cry

Of sea-birds clanging by,

The crash and grind of the floe,

Wail of wind and wash of tide.

"O wretched land!" he cried,

"Land of all lands the worst,

God forsaken and curst!

Thy gates of rock should show

The words the Tuscan seer

Read in the Realm of Woe

Hope entereth not here!"

Lo! at his feet there stood

A block of smooth larch wood,

Waif of some wandering wave,

Beside a rock-closed cave

By Nature fashioned for a grave;

Safe from the ravening bear

And fierce fowl of the air,

Wherein to rest was laid

A twenty summers' maid,

Whose blood had equal share

Of the lands of vine and snow,

Half French, half Eskimo.

In letters uneffaced,

Upon the block were traced

The grief and hope of man,

And thus the legend ran

"We loved her!

Words cannot tell how well!

We loved her!

God loved her!

And called her home to peace and rest.

We love her."

The stranger paused and read.

"O winter land!" he said,

"Thy right to be I own;

God leaves thee not alone.

And if thy fierce winds blow

Over drear wastes of rock and snow,

And at thy iron gates

The ghostly iceberg waits,

Thy homes and hearts are dear.

Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dust

Is sanctified by hope and trust;

God's love and man's are here.

And love where'er it goes

Makes its own atmosphere;

Its flowers of Paradise

Take root in the eternal ice,

And bloom through Polar snows!"

1881.

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Table of Contents

NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY

CONTENTS:

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

KING VOLMER AND ELSIE. AFTER THE DANISH OF CHRISTIAN WINTER.

THE THREE BELLS.

JOHN UNDERHILL.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

I.

II.

KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS

IN THE "OLD SOUTH."

THE HENCHMAN.

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK.

VALUATION.

RABBI ISHMAEL.

THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE