Chapter 17

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, 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.