Chapter 18

"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!