Chapter 3

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

"Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner Float over St. John." "Let the dastard look to it!" Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulnay King Louis, I'd free her again!"

"Alas for thy lady! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free; Nine days, in stern silence, Her thraldom she bore, But the tenth morning came, And Death opened her door!"

As if suddenly smitten La Tour staggered back; His hand grasped his sword-hilt, His forehead grew black. He sprang on the deck Of his shallop again. "We cruise now for vengeance! Give way!" cried Estienne.

"Massachusetts shall hear Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creekside Her fishers shall throng! Pentagoet shall rue What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo The Puritan's gun!"

Oh, the loveliest of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine, And green isles before him: But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on; And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John!

1841

THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON.

Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.

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

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

Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet.

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, Yet there they waited still!

What was the world without to them? The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance?

They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.

Oh, if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal;

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree Whose healing leaves of life are shed, In answer to the breath of prayer, Upon the waiting head;

Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, But on the fainting soul to shed A light and life divine--

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

Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die?

Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make.

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

Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer. Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save;

And murmur for Abana's banks And Pharpar's brighter wave.

O Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake Thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hour Forgetful of Thy pain;

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

1841

THE EXILES.

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

THE goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,-- The dark green woods were still; And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed, And all was still again, Save a low murmur in the air Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, A weary stranger came, And stood before the farmer's door, With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope Was in his quiet glance, And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed His tranquil countenance,--

A look, like that his Master wore In Pilate's council-hall: It told of wrongs, but of a love Meekly forgiving all.

"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?" The stranger meekly said; And, leaning on his oaken staff, The goodman's features read.

"My life is hunted,--evil men Are following in my track; The traces of the torturer's whip Are on my aged back;

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee Within thy doors to take A hunted seeker of the Truth, Oppressed for conscience' sake."

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, "Come in, old man!" quoth she, "We will not leave thee to the storm, Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in, And silent sat him down; While all within grew dark as night Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaze Filled every cottage nook, And with the jarring thunder-roll The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet Came sounding up the lane, And half a score of horse, or more, Came plunging through the rain.

"Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door,-- We would not be house-breakers; A rueful deed thou'st done this day, In harboring banished Quakers."

Out looked the cautious goodman then, With much of fear and awe, For there, with broad wig drenched with rain The parish priest he saw.

Open thy door, thou wicked man, And let thy pastor in, And give God thanks, if forty stripes Repay thy deadly sin."

"What seek ye?" quoth the goodman; "The stranger is my guest; He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,-- Pray let the old man rest."

"Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" And strong hands shook the door. "Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest, "Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore."

Then kindled Macy's eye of fire "No priest who walks the earth, Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth."

Down from his cottage wall he caught The matchlock, hotly tried At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, By fiery Ireton's side;

Where Puritan, and Cavalier, With shout and psalm contended; And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, With battle-thunder blended.

Up rose the ancient stranger then "My spirit is not free To bring the wrath and violence Of evil men on thee;

"And for thyself, I pray forbear, Bethink thee of thy Lord, Who healed again the smitten ear, And sheathed His follower's sword.

"I go, as to the slaughter led. Friends of the poor, farewell!" Beneath his hand the oaken door Back on its hinges fell.

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

And of his bondage hard and long In Boston's crowded jail, Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, With sickening childhood's wail,

It suits not with our tale to tell; Those scenes have passed away; Let the dim shadows of the past Brood o'er that evil day.

"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest, "Take Goodman Macy too; The sin of this day's heresy His back or purse shall rue."

"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macy cried. She caught his manly arm; Behind, the parson urged pursuit, With outcry and alarm.

Ho! speed the Macys, neck or naught,-- The river-course was near; The plashing on its pebbled shore Was music to their ear.

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, Above the waters hung, And at its base, with every wave, A small light wherry swung.

A leap--they gain the boat--and there The goodman wields his oar; "Ill luck betide them all," he cried, "The laggards on the shore."

Down through the crashing underwood, The burly sheriff came:-- "Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself; Yield in the King's own name."

"Now out upon thy hangman's face!" Bold Macy answered then,-- "Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men."

The priest came panting to the shore, His grave cocked hat was gone; Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn.

"Come back,--come back!" the parson cried, "The church's curse beware." "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "but Thy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest, "Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." "Who's born to be hanged will not be drowned," Quoth Macy, merrily;

"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by!" He bent him to his oar, And the small boat glided quietly From the twain upon the shore.

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

And through the broken clouds, the sun Looked out serene and warm, Painting its holy symbol-light Upon the passing storm.

Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span, O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; One bright foot touched the eastern hills, And one with ocean blended.

By green Pentucket's southern'slope The small boat glided fast; The watchers of the Block-house saw The strangers as they passed.

That night a stalwart garrison Sat shaking in their shoes, To hear the dip of Indian oars, The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher-wives of Salisbury-- The men were all away-- Looked out to see the stranger oar Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercock Peered o'er the pines before them.

Around the Black Rocks, on their left, The marsh lay broad and green; And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, Plum Island's hills were seen.

With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed; A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed.

The glory of the sunset heaven On land and water lay; On the steep hills of Agawam, On cape, and bluff, and bay.

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, And Gloucester's harbor-bar; The watch-fire of the garrison Shone like a setting star.

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

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

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape The venturous Macy passed, And on Nantucket's naked isle Drew up his boat at last.

And how, in log-built cabin, They braved the rough sea-weather; And there, in peace and quietness, Went down life's vale together;

How others drew around them, And how their fishing sped, Until to every wind of heaven Nantucket's sails were spread;

How pale Want alternated With Plenty's golden smile; Behold, is it not written In the annals of the isle?

And yet that isle remaineth A refuge of the free, As when true-hearted Macy Beheld it from the sea.

Free as the winds that winnow Her shrubless hills of sand, Free as the waves that batter Along her yielding land.

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

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

1841.

THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN.

ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills The sun shall sink again, Farewell to life and all its ills, Farewell to cell and chain!

These prison shades are dark and cold, But, darker far than they, The shadow of a sorrow old Is on my heart alway.

For since the day when Warkworth wood Closed o'er my steed, and I, An alien from my name and blood, A weed cast out to die,--

When, looking back in sunset light, I saw her turret gleam, And from its casement, far and white, Her sign of farewell stream,

Like one who, from some desert shore, Doth home's green isles descry, And, vainly longing, gazes o'er The waste of wave and sky;

So from the desert of my fate I gaze across the past; Forever on life's dial-plate The shade is backward cast!

I've wandered wide from shore to shore, I've knelt at many a shrine; And bowed me to the rocky floor Where Bethlehem's tapers shine;

And by the Holy Sepulchre I've pledged my knightly sword To Christ, His blessed Church, and her, The Mother of our Lord.

Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! How vain do all things seem! My soul is in the past, and life To-day is but a dream.

In vain the penance strange and long, And hard for flesh to bear; The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, And sackcloth shirt of hair.

The eyes of memory will not sleep, Its ears are open still; And vigils with the past they keep Against my feeble will.

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

Ah me! upon another's breast Those golden locks recline; I see upon another rest The glance that once was mine.

"O faithless priest! O perjured knight!" I hear the Master cry; "Shut out the vision from thy sight, Let Earth and Nature die.

"The Church of God is now thy spouse, And thou the bridegroom art; Then let the burden of thy vows Crush down thy human heart!"

In vain! This heart its grief must know, Till life itself hath ceased, And falls beneath the self-same blow The lover and the priest!

O pitying Mother! souls of light, And saints and martyrs old! Pray for a weak and sinful knight, A suffering man uphold.

Then let the Paynim work his will, And death unbind my chain, Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill The sun shall fall again.

1843

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK.

In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for non-attendance at church. They being unable to pay the fine, the General Court issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sell the said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away; Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand- maid free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold!

Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking and the shame; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came: "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said, "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street? Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?

"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.

"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.

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

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

"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"

Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there!

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

Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt; When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak: "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt."

Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all."

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky.

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land.

And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.

I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak! Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!"

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns his child!"

But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.

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

Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,-- "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!"

A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,-- I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,--