"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 knowThat 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 He left behind him many unpublished manuscripts covering a very wide range of subjects, most of which are now lost.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 nostraTangere 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 Pioneerand that able periodical the Penn Monthly, of Philadelphia, I amindebted for many of the foregoing facts in regard to the Germanpilgrims of the New World, thus closes his notice of Pastorius:—"No tombstone, not even a record of burial, indicates where his remainshave found their last resting-place, and the pardonable desire toassociate the homage due to this distinguished man with some visiblememento can not be gratified. There is no reason to suppose that he wasinterred in any other place than the Friends' old burying-ground inGermantown, though the fact is not attested by any definite source ofinformation. After all, this obliteration of the last trace of hisearthly existence is but typical of what has overtaken the times whichhe represents; that Germantown which he founded, which saw him live andmove, is at present but a quaint idyl of the past, almost a myth, barelyremembered and little cared for by the keener race that has succeeded.The Pilgrims of Plymouth have not lacked historian and poet. Justice hasbeen done to their faith, courage, and self-sacrifice, and to the mightyinfluence of their endeavors to establish righteousness on the earth.The Quaker pilgrims of Pennsylvania, seeking the same object bydifferent means, have not been equally fortunate. The power of theirtestimony for truth and holiness, peace and freedom, enforced only bywhat Milton calls "the unresistible might of meekness," has been feltthrough two centuries in the amelioration of penal severities, theabolition of slavery, the reform of the erring, the relief of the poorand suffering,—felt, in brief, in every step of human progress. But ofthe men themselves, with the single exception of William Penn, scarcelyanything 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 unrecordedgraves. They were not soldiers, like Miles Standish; they had no figureso picturesque as Vane, no leader so rashly brave and haughty asEndicott. No Cotton Mather wrote their Magnalia; they had no awful dramaof supernaturalism in which Satan and his angels were actors; and theonly witch mentioned in their simple annals was a poor old Swedishwoman, who, on complaint of her countrywomen, was tried and acquittedof everything but imbecility and folly. Nothing but common-place officesof civility came to pass between them and the Indians; indeed, theirenemies taunted them with the fact that the savages did not regard themas Christians, but just such men as themselves. Yet it must be apparentto every careful observer of the progress of American civilization thatits two principal currents had their sources in the entirely oppositedirections of the Puritan and Quaker colonies. To use the words of alate writer: "The historical forces, with which no others may becompared in their influence on the people, have been those of thePuritan and the Quaker. The strength of the one was in the confession ofan invisible Presence, a righteous, eternal Will, which would establishrighteousness on earth; and thence arose the conviction of a directpersonal responsibility, which could be tempted by no external splendorand could be shaken by no internal agitation, and could not be evaded ortransferred. The strength of the other was the witness in the humanspirit 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, andwhich yet was the light of the world; and all other voices were silentbefore this, and the solitary path whither it led was more sacred thanthe worn ways of cathedral-aisles." It will be sufficiently apparent tothe reader that, in the poem which follows, I have attempted nothingbeyond a study of the life and times of the Pennsylvania colonist,—asimple picture of a noteworthy man and his locality. The colors of mysketch are all very sober, toned down to the quiet and dreamy atmospherethrough which its subject is visible. Whether, in the glare and tumultof the present time, such a picture will find favor may well bequestioned. I only know that it has beguiled for me some hours ofweariness, 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 beLook 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 plannedNew forest-homes beyond the mighty sea,There undisturbed and freeTo live as brothers of one family.What pains and cares befell,What trials and what fears,Remember, and wherein we have done wellFollow our footsteps, men of coming years!Where we have failed to doAright, 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 GermanyForevermore farewell!(From the Latin of Francis DANIEL PASTORIUS inthe Germantown Records. 1688.)
PRELUDE.I SING the Pilgrim of a softer climeAnd milder speech than those brave men's who broughtTo the ice and iron of our winter timeA will as firm, a creed as stern, and wroughtWith one mailed hand, and with the other fought.Simply, as fits my theme, in homely rhymeI 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 soughtI bring him; over fields of harvest sownWith seeds of blessing, now to ripeness grown,I bid the sower pass before the reapers' sight.. . . . . . . . . .Never in tenderer quiet lapsed the dayFrom Pennsylvania's vales of spring away,Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets layAlong the wedded rivers. One long barOf purple cloud, on which the evening starShone like a jewel on a scimitar,Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deepHush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep,The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep.All else was still. The oxen from their ploughsRested at last, and from their long day's browseCame the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows.And the young city, round whose virgin zoneThe rivers like two mighty arms were thrown,Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone,Lay in the distance, lovely even thenWith its fair women and its stately menGracing the forest court of William Penn,Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn framesOf oak and pine the dryads held their claims,And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names.Anna Pastorius down the leafy laneLooked city-ward, then stooped to prune againHer vines and simples, with a sigh of pain.For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paledIn 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 stoodSilent before her, wrestling with the moodOf 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 FriendsAre frail; our elders have their selfish ends,And few dare trust the Lord to make amends"For duty's loss. So even our feeble wordFor the dumb slaves the startled meeting heardAs if a stone its quiet waters stirred;"And, as the clerk ceased reading, there beganA ripple of dissent which downward ranIn 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 rowOf gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous show,I saw, methought, dark faces full of woe."And, in the spirit, I was taken whereThey toiled and suffered; I was made awareOf shame and wrath and anguish and despair!"And while the meeting smothered our poor pleaWith 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 onOf anise, mint, and cumin, till the sunSet, 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 ageHe read the herbal signs of nature's page,As once he heard in sweet Von Merlau's' bowersFair 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, rifeWith leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec knifeOr Carib spear, a gift to William PennFrom 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 comeA sudden beauty, brightness, and perfume,The century-moulded bud shall burst in bloom."So may the seed which hath been sown to-dayGrow with the years, and, after long delay,Break into bloom, and God's eternal Yea!"Answer at last the patient prayers of themWho now, by faith alone, behold its stemCrowned 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!" TendererThan youth's caress upon the head of herPastorius laid his hand. "Shall we demur"Because the vision tarrieth? In an hourWe 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 ledTo where their child upon his little bedLooked up and smiled. "Dear heart," she said, "if weMust 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 blockSet the low walls a-glimmer, showed the cockRebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock,Shone on old tomes of law and physic, sideBy side with Fox and Belimen, played at hideAnd seek with Anna, midst her household prideOf flaxen webs, and on the table, bareOf 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 gaveFood to the poor and shelter to the slave.For all too soon the New World's scandal shamedThe 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 soreOn tender hearts. At last Pastorius boreTheir warning message to the Church's doorIn God's name; and the leaven of the wordWrought ever after in the souls who heard,And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirredTo troubled life, and urged the vain excuseOf Hebrew custom, patriarchal use,Good in itself if evil in abuse.Gravely Pastorius listened, not the lessDiscerning through the decent fig-leaf dressOf 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 delayAnd proffered cheer prolonged the master's stay,To speed the black guest safely on his way.Yet, who shall guess his bitter grief who lendsHis life to some great cause, and finds his friendsShame or betray it for their private ends?How felt the Master when his chosen stroveIn 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 ownA stranger oft, companionless and lone,God's priest and prophet stands. The martyr's painIs not alone from scourge and cell and chain;Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train,His weak disciples by their lives denyThe 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 grayDrew 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 understandThe New World's promise, sought his helping hand.Or painful Kelpius from his hermit denBy Wissahickon, maddest of good men,Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.Deep in the woods, where the small river slidSnake-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 StoneOf 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 chinLeaned o'er the gate; or Ranter, pure within,Aired his perfection in a world of sin.Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der GraafTeased the low back-log with his shodden staff,Till the red embers broke into a laughAnd dance of flame, as if they fain would cheerThe rugged face, half tender, half austere,Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear!Or Sluyter, saintly familist, whose wordAs 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 faceRiding 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 moreHis long-disused and half-forgotten lore.For both could baffle Babel's lingual curse,And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearseCleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding verse.And oft Pastorius and the meek old manArgued as Quaker and as Lutheran,Ending in Christian love, as they began.With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns he strayedWhere Sommerhausen over vales of shadeLooked miles away, by every flower delayed,Or song of bird, happy and free with oneWho loved, like him, to let his memory runOver old fields of learning, and to sunHimself in Plato's wise philosophies,And dream with Philo over mysteriesWhereof the dreamer never finds the keys;To touch all themes of thought, nor weakly stopFor doubt of truth, but let the buckets dropDeep down and bring the hidden waters upFor there was freedom in that wakening timeOf 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, stoleThrough the stained oriel of each human soul.Gathered from many sects, the Quaker broughtHis old beliefs, adjusting to the thoughtThat moved his soul the creed his fathers taught.One faith alone, so broad that all mankindWithin 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, faceBy face in Flemish detail, we may traceHow loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral graceSat in close contrast,—the clipt-headed churl,Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girlBy skirt of silk and periwig in curlFor soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-troveMade all men equal, none could rise aboveNor 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 townAdded the freedom of the woods, and soughtThe bookless wisdom by experience taught,And learned to love his new-found home, while notForgetful of the old; the seasons wentTheir rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lentOf their own calm and measureless content.Glad even to tears, he heard the robin singHis 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 flameOf splendor, making summer's greenness tame,Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a soundSpake to him from each kindled bush around,And made the strange, new landscape holy groundAnd when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift,Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift,He exercised, as Friends might say, his giftOf verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hashOf corn and beans in Indian succotash;Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flashOf wit and fine conceit,—the good man's playOf quiet fancies, meet to while awayThe slow hours measuring off an idle day.At evening, while his wife put on her lookOf love's endurance, from its niche he tookThe 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 friendIn gray Altorf or storied Nurnberg pennedDropped in upon him like a guest to spendThe night beneath his roof-tree. MysticalThe fair Von Merlau spake as waters fallAnd voices sound in dreams, and yet withalHuman and sweet, as if each far, low tone,Over the roses of her gardens blownBrought the warm sense of beauty all her own.Wise Spener questioned what his friend could traceOf spiritual influx or of saving graceIn the wild natures of the Indian race.And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to lookFrom 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 handsAcross the water, and the friendly landsTalked with each other from their severed strands.Pastorius answered all: while seed and rootSent from his new home grew to flower and fruitAlong the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot;And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knewSmiled 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 paleAt 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 loveOf tenderer skies than German land knew of,Green calm below, blue quietness above,Still flow of water, deep repose of woodThat, with a sense of loving FatherhoodAnd childlike trust in the Eternal Good,Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate,Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to waitThe slow assurance of the better state?Who knows what goadings in their sterner wayO'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 spokeIn waves that on their iron coast-line broke?Be it as it may: within the Land of PennThe sectary yielded to the citizen,And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stungThe air to madness, and no steeple flungAlarums down from bells at midnight rung.The land slept well. The Indian from his faceWashed all his war-paint off, and in the placeOf battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,—Giving to kindness what his native prideAnd lazy freedom to all else denied.And well the curious scholar loved the oldTraditions that his swarthy neighbors toldBy wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,Discerned the fact round which their fancy drewIts dreams, and held their childish faith more trueTo God and man than half the creeds he knew.The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolledBeneath the warm wind waves of green and gold;The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.Great clusters ripened in a warmer sunThan that which by the Rhine stream shines uponThe purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun.About each rustic porch the humming-birdTried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred,The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bendingThe young boughs down, their gold and russet blending,Made glad his heart, familiar odors lendingTo 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 psalmTo the tired grinder at the noisy wheelOf labor, winding off from memory's reelA golden thread of music. With no pealOf bells to call them to the house of praise,The scattered settlers through green forest-waysWalked meeting-ward. In reverent amazeThe Indian trapper saw them, from the dimShade of the alders on the rivulet's rim,Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him.There, through the gathered stillness multipliedAnd made intense by sympathy, outsideThe sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfumeBreathed through the open windows of the roomFrom 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 breadIn Indian isles; pale women who had bledUnder the hangman's lash, and bravely saidGod's message through their prison's iron bars;And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scarsFrom every stricken field of England's wars.Lowly before the Unseen Presence kneltEach waiting heart, till haply some one feltOn his moved lips the seal of silence melt.Or, without spoken words, low breathings stoleOf 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 storeOf weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maidDown 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 woundThe ear of silence heard, and every soundIts place in nature's fine accordance found.And solemn meeting, summer sky and wood,Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhoodSeemed, like God's new creation, very good!And, greeting all with quiet smile and word,Pastorius went his way. The unscared birdSang at his side; scarcely the squirrel stirredAt 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 tryThe 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 lastThe 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 lightShone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sightOf Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white;And closed his eyes, and listened to the sweetOld 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 fastOf 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 bloomDown the long street, the beauty and perfumeOf apple-boughs, the mingling light and gloomOf Sommerhausen's woodlands, woven throughWith 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 ProvidenceReach out of space. A Voice spake in his ear,And to all other voices far and nearDied at that whisper, full of meanings clear.The Light of Life shone round him; one by oneThe wandering lights, that all-misleading run,Went out like candles paling in the sun.That Light he followed, step by step, where'erIt led, as in the vision of the seerThe wheels moved as the spirit in the clearAnd terrible crystal moved, with all their eyesWatching 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 seeHis own dear Friends sit by him knee to knee,In social converse, genial, frank, and free.There sometimes silence (it were hard to tellWho owned it first) upon the circle fell,Hushed Anna's busy wheel, and laid its spellOn the black boy who grimaced by the hearth,To solemnize his shining face of mirth;Only the old clock ticked amidst the dearthOf sound; nor eye was raised nor hand was stirredIn that soul-sabbath, till at last some wordOf tender counsel or low prayer was heard.Then guests, who lingered but farewell to sayAnd 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 toldOf 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 lastIn Bartram's garden, did John Woolman castA glance upon it as he meekly passed?And did a secret sympathy possessThat tender soul, and for the slave's redressLend hope, strength, patience? It were vain toguess.Nay, were the plant itself but mythical,Set in the fresco of tradition's wallLike Jotham's bramble, mattereth not at all.Enough to know that, through the winter's frostAnd 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 soThe world forgets, but the wise angels know.
WHERE, over heathen doom-rings and gray stonesof the Horg,In its little Christian city stands the church ofVordingborg,In merry mood King Volmer sat, forgetful of hispower,As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on histower.Out spake the King to Henrik, his young and faithfulsquire"Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid of thydesire?""Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only meAs true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee."Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow shall bringanother day,When I myself will test her; she will not say menay."Thereat the lords and gallants, that round abouthim stood,Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled ascourtiers should.The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on theancient townFrom the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Gooselooks down;The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind ofmorn,The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blareof hunter's horn.In the garden of her father little Elsie sits andspins,And, singing with the early birds, her daily task,begins.Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around hergarden-bower,But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer thanthe flower.About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and,whiteAs snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small,round wrists in sight;Below, the modest petticoat can only half concealThe motion of the lightest foot that ever turned awheel.The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum insunshine warm;But, look! she starts, she lifts her face, she shadesit with her arm.And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound ofdog and horn,Come leaping o'er the ditches, come tramplingdown the corn!Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plumestreamed gay,As fast beside her father's gate the riders heldtheir way;And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with goldenspur on heel,And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maidenchecked her wheel."All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me!For weary months in secret my heart has longed forthee!"What noble knight was this? What words formodest maiden's ear?She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness andfear.She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain wouldseek the door,Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushescrimsoned o'er."Nay, fear me not," the rider said, "I offer heartand hand,Bear witness these good Danish knights who roundabout me stand."I grant you time to think of this, to answer asyou may,For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day."He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing roundhis train,He saw his merry followers seek to hide theirsmiles in vain."The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your curls ofgolden hair,I'll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that youwear;All precious gems shall twine your neck; and ina chariot gayYou shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steedsof gray."And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, andbrazen lamps shall glow;On marble floors your feet shall weave the dancesto and fro.At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shallshine,While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drinkthe blood-red wine."Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer faceto face;A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lipfound place.Back from her low white forehead the curls ofgold she threw,And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear andblue."I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight;I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turnto slight.If you would wed me henceforth be a peasant, nota lord;I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trustysword.""To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadelaway,And in its place will swing the scythe and mowyour father's hay.""Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes cannever bear;A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that youmust wear.""Well, Vadmal will I wear for you," the ridergayly spoke,"And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay my scarletcloak.""But mark," she said, "no stately horse my peasantlove must ride,A yoke of steers before the plough is all that hemust guide."The knight looked down upon his steed: "Well,let him wander freeNo other man must ride the horse that has beenbacked by me.Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to my oxentalk,If only little Elsie beside my plough will walk.""You must take from out your cellar cask of wineand flask and can;The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant.man.""Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink that meadof thine,And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat to drainmy generous wine.""Now break your shield asunder, and shatter signand boss,Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightlyknee across.And pull me down your castle from top to basementwall,And let your plough trace furrows in the ruins ofyour hall!"Then smiled he with a lofty pride; right well atlast he knewThe maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth.plight true."Ah, roguish little Elsie! you act your part fullwellYou know that I must bear my shield and in mycastle dwell!"The lions ramping on that shield between thehearts aflameKeep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard herancient name."For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yondertowers,Who ploughs them ploughs up Denmark, thisgoodly home of ours'."I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I knowis true;Would God that all our maidens were good andpure as you!Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shallwell repay;God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bringanother day!"He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his goodsteed then,And like a whirl-blast swept away with all hisgallant men.The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again onwinds of mornThe wood resounds with cry of hounds and blareof hunter's horn."Thou true and ever faithful!" the listeningHenrik cried;And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he stood byElsie's side.None saw the fond embracing, save, shining fromafar,The Golden Goose that watched them from thetower of Valdemar.O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowersthat throngHer vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you mysong.No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer'sskill;Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land hasplenty still!1872.