On a painting by E. A. Abbey. The General Court of Massachusetts enacted Oct. 19, 1658, that "any person or persons of the cursed sect of Quakers" should, on conviction of the same, be banished, on pain of death, from the jurisdiction of the common-wealth.
OVER the threshold of his pleasant homeSet in green clearings passed the exiled Friend,In simple trust, misdoubting not the end."Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has comeTo trust the Lord for shelter." One long gazeThe goodwife turned on each familiar thing,—The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming,The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,—And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide."Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound,Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound."Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried.They left behind them more than home or land,And set sad faces to an alien strand.Safer with winds and waves than human wrath,With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for GodWas cruelty to man, the exiles trodDrear leagues of forest without guide or path,Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea,Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite groundThe waves to foam, their perilous way they wound,Enduring all things so their souls were free.Oh, true confessors, shaming them who didAnew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers boreFor you the Mayflower spread her sail once more,Freighted with souls, to all that duty bidFaithful as they who sought an unknown land,O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand!So from his lost home to the darkening main,Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way,And, when the green shore blended with the gray,His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again.""Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he,And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer;And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear!So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea,Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gaveWith feeble voices thanks for friendly groundWhereon to rest their weary feet, and foundA peaceful death-bed and a quiet graveWhere, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age,The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores,And Indian-haunted Narragansett sawThe way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw,Or heard the plashing of their weary oars.And every place whereon they rested grewHappier for pure and gracious womanhood,And men whose names for stainless honor stood,Founders of States and rulers wise and true.The Muse of history yet shall make amendsTo those who freedom, peace, and justice taught,Beyond their dark age led the van of thought,And left unforfeited the name of Friends.O mother State, how foiled was thy designThe gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.
The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Murchen, Berlin, 1816. The ballad appeared first in St. Nicholas, whose young readers were advised, while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of past ages.
THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er,To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranianshore;And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maidPlucked the meadow-flowers together and in thesea-surf played.Alike were they in beauty if not in their degreeHe was the Amptman's first-born, the miller'schild was she.Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfsand Trolls,The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people withoutsouls;And for every man and woman in Rugen's islandfoundWalking in air and sunshine, a Troll wasunderground.It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolledawayAmong the haunted Nine Hills, where the elvesand goblins play.That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters hadknownOf evil voices in the air, and heard the small hornsblown.She came not back; the search for her in field andwood was vainThey cried her east, they cried her west, but shecame not again."She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said thedream-wives wise and old,And prayers were made, and masses said, andRambin's church bell tolled.Five years her father mourned her; and then JohnDeitrich said"I will find my little playmate, be she alive ordead."He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard theBrown Dwarfs sing,And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in aring.And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his capof red,Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust iton his head.The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept forlack of it."Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your greathead unfit!""Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws hischarmed cap away,Must serve its finder at his will, and for his follypay."You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in theearth;And you shall ope the door of glass and let melead her forth.""She will not come; she's one of us; she'smine!" the Brown Dwarf said;The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow weshall wed.""The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "andkeep thy foul tongue still.Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door ofthe hill!"The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, thelong stair-way passed,And saw in dim and sunless light a country strangeand vast.Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfinunder-land,—Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of goldensand.He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richlyspread,Where a young maiden served to him the red wineand the bread.How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly andso wild!Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who neversmiled!Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tenderblue eyes seemedLike something he had seen elsewhere or some.thing he had dreamed.He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knewthe long-lost one;"O Lisbeth! See thy playmate—I am theAmptman's son!"She leaned her fair head on his breast, and throughher sobs she spoke"Oh, take me from this evil place, and from theelfin folk,"And let me tread the grass-green fields and smellthe flowers again,And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear thedropping rain!"And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling ofthe tree,The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices ofthe sea;"And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside thedoor,And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambinchurch once more!"He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the BrownDwarf groaned to see,And tore his tangled hair and ground his longteeth angrily.But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tenderChristian maidHas served you in your evil world and well mustshe be paid!"Haste!—hither bring me precious gems, therichest in your store;Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll takeyour cap once more."No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring,he obeyed,And filled the pockets of the youth and apron ofthe maid.They left the dreadful under-land and passed thegate of glass;They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod thesoft, green grass.And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch upto them his brownAnd crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his redcap down.Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky soblue,As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasantmeadows through!And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin'swoods before,And never washed the waves so soft along the Balticshore;And when beneath his door-yard trees the fathermet his child,The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folkswith joy ran wild.