On the declivity of a hill in Salisbury, Essex County, is a fountain of clear water, gushing from the very roots of a venerable oak. It is about two miles from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimac.
TRAVELLER! on thy journey toilingBy the swift Powow,With the summer sunshine fallingOn thy heated brow,Listen, while all else is still,To the brooklet from the hill.Wild and sweet the flowers are blowingBy that streamlet's side,And a greener verdure showingWhere its waters glide,Down the hill-slope murmuring on,Over root and mossy stone.Where yon oak his broad arms flingethO'er the sloping hill,Beautiful and freshly springethThat soft-flowing rill,Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,Gushing up to sun and air.Brighter waters sparkled neverIn that magic well,Of whose gift of life foreverAncient legends tell,In the lonely desert wasted,And by mortal lip untasted.Waters which the proud CastilianSought with longing eyes,Underneath the bright pavilionOf the Indian skies,Where his forest pathway layThrough the blooms of Florida.Years ago a lonely stranger,With the dusky browOf the outcast forest-ranger,Crossed the swift Powow,And betook him to the rillAnd the oak upon the hill.O'er his face of moody sadnessFor an instant shoneSomething like a gleam of gladness,As he stooped him downTo the fountain's grassy side,And his eager thirst supplied.With the oak its shadow throwingO'er his mossy seat,And the cool, sweet waters flowingSoftly at his feet,Closely by the fountain's rimThat lone Indian seated him.Autumn's earliest frost had givenTo the woods belowHues of beauty, such as heavenLendeth to its bow;And the soft breeze from the westScarcely broke their dreamy rest.Far behind was Ocean strivingWith his chains of sand;Southward, sunny glimpses giving,'Twixt the swells of land,Of its calm and silvery track,Rolled the tranquil Merrimac.Over village, wood, and meadowGazed that stranger man,Sadly, till the twilight shadowOver all things ran,Save where spire and westward paneFlashed the sunset back again.Gazing thus upon the dwellingOf his warrior sires,Where no lingering trace was tellingOf their wigwam fires,Who the gloomy thoughts might knowOf that wandering child of woe?Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,Hills that once had stoodDown their sides the shadows throwingOf a mighty wood,Where the deer his covert kept,And the eagle's pinion swept!Where the birch canoe had glidedDown the swift Powow,Dark and gloomy bridges stridedThose clear waters now;And where once the beaver swam,Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.For the wood-bird's merry singing,And the hunter's cheer,Iron clang and hammer's ringingSmote upon his ear;And the thick and sullen smokeFrom the blackened forges broke.Could it be his fathers everLoved to linger here?These bare hills, this conquered river,—Could they hold them dear,With their native lovelinessTamed and tortured into this?Sadly, as the shades of evenGathered o'er the hill,While the western half of heavenBlushed with sunset still,From the fountain's mossy seatTurned the Indian's weary feet.Year on year hath flown forever,But he came no moreTo the hillside on the riverWhere he came before.But the villager can tellOf that strange man's visit well.And the merry children, ladenWith their fruits or flowers,Roving boy and laughing maiden,In their school-day hours,Love the simple tale to tellOf the Indian and his well.1837
The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the famous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, among them Hertel de Rouville. The minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled The Border War of 1708, published in my collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, I have given a prose narrative of the surprise of Haverhill.
How sweetly on the wood-girt townThe mellow light of sunset shone!Each small, bright lake, whose waters stillMirror the forest and the hill,Reflected from its waveless breastThe beauty of a cloudless west,Glorious as if a glimpse were givenWithin the western gates of heaven,Left, by the spirit of the starOf sunset's holy hour, ajar!Beside the river's tranquil floodThe dark and low-walled dwellings stood,Where many a rood of open landStretched up and down on either hand,With corn-leaves waving freshly greenThe thick and blackened stumps between.Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,The wild, untravelled forest spread,Back to those mountains, white and cold,Of which the Indian trapper told,Upon whose summits never yetWas mortal foot in safety set.Quiet and calm without a fear,Of danger darkly lurking near,The weary laborer left his plough,The milkmaid carolled by her cow;From cottage door and household hearthRose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.At length the murmur died away,And silence on that village lay.—So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,Undreaming of the fiery fateWhich made its dwellings desolate.Hours passed away. By moonlight spedThe Merrimac along his bed.Bathed in the pallid lustre, stoodDark cottage-wall and rock and wood,Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,As the hushed grouping of a dream.Yet on the still air crept a sound,No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing,Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.Was that the tread of many feet,Which downward from the hillside beat?What forms were those which darkly stoodJust on the margin of the wood?—Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,Or paling rude, or leafless limb?No,—through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,Dark human forms in moonshine showed,Wild from their native wilderness,With painted limbs and battle-dress.A yell the dead might wake to hearSwelled on the night air, far and clear;Then smote the Indian tomahawkOn crashing door and shattering lock;Then rang the rifle-shot, and thenThe shrill death-scream of stricken men,—Sank the red axe in woman's brain,And childhood's cry arose in vain.Bursting through roof and window came,Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,And blended fire and moonlight glaredOn still dead men and scalp-knives bared.The morning sun looked brightly throughThe river willows, wet with dew.No sound of combat filled the air,No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;Yet still the thick and sullen smokeFrom smouldering ruins slowly broke;And on the greensward many a stain,And, here and there, the mangled slain,Told how that midnight bolt had spedPentucket, on thy fated head.Even now the villager can tellWhere Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,Still show the door of wasting oak,Through which the fatal death-shot broke,And point the curious stranger whereDe Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;Whose hideous head, in death still feared,Bore not a trace of hair or beard;And still, within the churchyard ground,Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,Whose grass-grown surface overliesThe victims of that sacrifice.1838.
In the early part of the present century, a fragment of a statue, rudely chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on the Merrimac. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact that the ancient Northmen visited the north-east coast of North America and probably New England, some centuries before the discovery of the western world by Columbus, is very generally admitted.
GIFT from the cold and silent Past!A relic to the present cast,Left on the ever-changing strandOf shifting and unstable sand,Which wastes beneath the steady chimeAnd beating of the waves of Time!Who from its bed of primal rockFirst wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,Thy rude and savage outline wrought?The waters of my native streamAre glancing in the sun's warm beam;From sail-urged keel and flashing oarThe circles widen to its shore;And cultured field and peopled townSlope to its willowed margin down.Yet, while this morning breeze is bringingThe home-life sound of school-bells ringing,And rolling wheel, and rapid jarOf the fire-winged and steedless car,And voices from the wayside nearCome quick and blended on my ear,—A spell is in this old gray stone,My thoughts are with the Past alone!A change!—The steepled town no moreStretches along the sail-thronged shore;Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proudSpectrally rising where they stood,I see the old, primeval wood;Dark, shadow-like, on either handI see its solemn waste expand;It climbs the green and cultured hill,It arches o'er the valley's rill,And leans from cliff and crag to throwIts wild arms o'er the stream below.Unchanged, alone, the same bright riverFlows on, as it will flow foreverI listen, and I hear the lowSoft ripple where its waters go;I hear behind the panther's cry,The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,And shyly on the river's brinkThe deer is stooping down to drink.But hark!—from wood and rock flung back,What sound comes up the Merrimac?What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Have they not in the North Sea's blastBowed to the waves the straining mast?Their frozen sails the low, pale sunOf Thule's night has shone upon;Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweepRound icy drift, and headland steep.Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughtersHave watched them fading o'er the waters,Lessening through driving mist and spray,Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!Onward they glide,—and now I viewTheir iron-armed and stalwart crew;Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,Turned to green earth and summer sky.Each broad, seamed breast has cast asideIts cumbering vest of shaggy hide;Bared to the sun and soft warm air,Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair.I see the gleam of axe and spear,The sound of smitten shields I hear,Keeping a harsh and fitting timeTo Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,His gray and naked isles among;Or muttered low at midnight hourRound Odin's mossy stone of power.The wolf beneath the Arctic moonHas answered to that startling rune;The Gael has heard its stormy swell,The light Frank knows its summons well;Iona's sable-stoled CuldeeHas heard it sounding o'er the sea,And swept, with hoary beard and hair,His altar's foot in trembling prayer.'T is past,—the 'wildering vision diesIn darkness on my dreaming eyesThe forest vanishes in air,Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;I hear the common tread of men,And hum of work-day life again;The mystic relic seems aloneA broken mass of common stone;And if it be the chiselled limbOf Berserker or idol grim,A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,The stormy Viking's god of War,Or Praga of the Runic lay,Or love-awakening Siona,I know not,—for no graven line,Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,Is left me here, by which to traceIts name, or origin, or place.Yet, for this vision of the Past,This glance upon its darkness cast,My spirit bows in gratitudeBefore the Giver of all good,Who fashioned so the human mind,That, from the waste of Time behind,A simple stone, or mound of earth,Can summon the departed forth;Quicken the Past to life again,The Present lose in what hath been,And in their primal freshness showThe buried forms of long ago.As if a portion of that ThoughtBy which the Eternal will is wrought,Whose impulse fills anew with breathThe frozen solitude of Death,To mortal mind were sometimes lent,To mortal musings sometimes sent,To whisper-even when it seemsBut Memory's fantasy of dreams—Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,Of an immortal origin!1841.
Polan, chief of the Sokokis Indians of the country between Agamenticus and Casco Bay, was killed at Windham on Sebago Lake in the spring of 1756. After the whites had retired, the surviving Indians "swayed" or bent down a young tree until its roots were upturned, placed the body of their chief beneath it, then released the tree, which, in springing back to its old position, covered the grave. The Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed to the French settlements on the St. Francois.
AROUND Sebago's lonely lakeThere lingers not a breeze to breakThe mirror which its waters make.The solemn pines along its shore,The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er,Are painted on its glassy floor.The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye,The snowy mountain-tops which liePiled coldly up against the sky.Dazzling and white! save where the bleak,Wild winds have bared some splintering peak,Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.Yet green are Saco's banks below,And belts of spruce and cedar show,Dark fringing round those cones of snow.The earth hath felt the breath of spring,Though yet on her deliverer's wingThe lingering frosts of winter cling.Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks,And mildly from its sunny nooksThe blue eye of the violet looks.And odors from the springing grass,The sweet birch and the sassafras,Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.Her tokens of renewing careHath Nature scattered everywhere,In bud and flower, and warmer air.But in their hour of bitterness,What reek the broken Sokokis,Beside their slaughtered chief, of this?The turf's red stain is yet undried,Scarce have the death-shot echoes diedAlong Sebago's wooded side;And silent now the hunters stand,Grouped darkly, where a swell of landSlopes upward from the lake's white sand.Fire and the axe have swept it bare,Save one lone beech, unclosing thereIts light leaves in the vernal air.With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute,They break the damp turf at its foot,And bare its coiled and twisted root.They heave the stubborn trunk aside,The firm roots from the earth divide,—The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.And there the fallen chief is laid,In tasselled garb of skins arrayed,And girded with his wampum-braid.The silver cross he loved is pressedBeneath the heavy arms, which restUpon his scarred and naked breast.'T is done: the roots are backward sent,The beechen-tree stands up unbent,The Indian's fitting monument!When of that sleeper's broken raceTheir green and pleasant dwelling-place,Which knew them once, retains no trace;Oh, long may sunset's light be shedAs now upon that beech's head,A green memorial of the dead!There shall his fitting requiem be,In northern winds, that, cold and free,Howl nightly in that funeral tree.To their wild wail the waves which breakForever round that lonely lakeA solemn undertone shall make!And who shall deem the spot unblest,Where Nature's younger children rest,Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast?Deem ye that mother loveth lessThese bronzed forms of the wildernessShe foldeth in her long caress?As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow,As if with fairer hair and browThe blue-eyed Saxon slept below.What though the places of their restNo priestly knee hath ever pressed,—No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed?What though the bigot's ban be there,And thoughts of wailing and despair,And cursing in the place of prayer.Yet Heaven hath angels watching roundThe Indian's lowliest forest-mound,—And they have made it holy ground.There ceases man's frail judgment; allHis powerless bolts of cursing fallUnheeded on that grassy pall.O peeled and hunted and reviled,Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild!Great Nature owns her simple child!And Nature's God, to whom aloneThe secret of the heart is known,—The hidden language traced thereon;Who from its many cumberingsOf form and creed, and outward things,To light the naked spirit brings;Not with our partial eye shall scan,Not with our pride and scorn shall ban,The spirit of our brother man!1841.
The fierce rivalry between Charles de La Tour, a Protestant, and D'Aulnay Charnasy, a Catholic, for the possession of Acadia, forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. La Tour received aid in several instances from the Puritan colony of Massachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was attacked by D'Aulnay, and successfully defended by its high-spirited mistress. A second attack however followed in the fourth month, 1647, when D'Aulnay was successful, and the garrison was put to the sword. Lady La Tour languished a few days in the hands of her enemy, and then died of grief.
"To the winds give our banner!Bear homeward again!"Cried the Lord of Acadia,Cried Charles of Estienne;From the prow of his shallopHe gazed, as the sun,From its bed in the ocean,Streamed up the St. John.O'er the blue western watersThat shallop had passed,Where the mists of PenobscotClung damp on her mast.St. Saviour had lookedOn the heretic sail,As the songs of the HuguenotRose on the gale.The pale, ghostly fathersRemembered her well,And had cursed her while passing,With taper and bell;But the men of Monhegan,Of Papists abhorred,Had welcomed and feastedThe heretic Lord.They had loaded his shallopWith dun-fish and ball,With stores for his larder,And steel for his wall.Pemaquid, from her bastionsAnd turrets of stone,Had welcomed his comingWith banner and gun.And the prayers of the eldersHad followed his way,As homeward he glided,Down Pentecost Bay.Oh, well sped La TourFor, in peril and pain,His lady kept watch,For his coming again.O'er the Isle of the PheasantThe morning sun shone,On the plane-trees which shadedThe shores of St. John."Now, why from yon battlementsSpeaks not my love!Why waves there no bannerMy fortress above?"Dark and wild, from his deckSt. Estienne gazed about,On fire-wasted dwellings,And silent redoubt;From the low, shattered wallsWhich the flame had o'errun,There floated no banner,There thundered no gun!But beneath the low archOf its doorway there stoodA pale priest of Rome,In his cloak and his hood.With the bound of a lion,La Tour sprang to land,On the throat of the PapistHe fastened his hand."Speak, son of the WomanOf scarlet and sin!What wolf has been prowlingMy castle within?"From the grasp of the soldierThe Jesuit broke,Half in scorn, half in sorrow,He smiled as he spoke:"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,Has ravaged thy hall,But thy red-handed rival,With fire, steel, and ball!On an errand of mercyI hitherward came,While the walls of thy castleYet spouted with flame."Pentagoet's dark vesselsWere moored in the bay,Grim sea-lions, roaringAloud for their prey.""But what of my lady?"Cried Charles of Estienne."On the shot-crumbled turretThy lady was seen:"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,Her hand grasped thy pennon,While her dark tresses swayedIn the hot breath of cannon!But woe to the heretic,Evermore woe!When the son of the churchAnd the cross is his foe!"In the track of the shell,In the path of the ball,Pentagoet swept overThe breach of the wall!Steel to steel, gun to gun,One moment,—and thenAlone stood the victor,Alone with his men!"Of its sturdy defenders,Thy lady aloneSaw the cross-blazoned bannerFloat 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 theeIs needed by herWhom 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 smittenLa Tour staggered back;His hand grasped his sword-hilt,His forehead grew black.He sprang on the deckOf his shallop again."We cruise now for vengeance!Give way!" cried Estienne."Massachusetts shall hearOf the Huguenot's wrong,And from island and creeksideHer fishers shall throng!Pentagoet shall rueWhat his Papists have done,When his palisades echoThe Puritan's gun!"Oh, the loveliest of heavensHung tenderly o'er him,There were waves in the sunshine,And green isles before him:But a pale hand was beckoningThe Huguenot on;And in blackness and ashesBehind was St. John!1841
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 watchfulnessThe sacred cypress-tree about,And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,Their failing eyes looked out.Gray Age and Sickness waiting thereThrough weary night and lingering day,—Grim as the idols at their side,And motionless as they.Unheeded in the boughs aboveThe song of Ceylon's birds was sweet;Unseen of them the island flowersBloomed 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 danceOf Ceylon's maids, the passing gleamOf battle-flag and lance?They waited for that falling leafOf which the wandering Jogees sing:Which lends once more to wintry ageThe greenness of its spring.Oh, if these poor and blinded onesIn trustful patience wait to feelO'er torpid pulse and failing limbA youthful freshness steal;Shall we, who sit beneath that TreeWhose 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 shedA light and life divine—Shall we grow weary in our watch,And murmur at the long delay?Impatient of our Father's timeAnd His appointed way?Or shall the stir of outward thingsAllure and claim the Christian's eye,When on the heathen watcher's earTheir powerless murmurs die?Alas! a deeper test of faithThan prison cell or martyr's stake,The self-abasing watchfulnessOf silent prayer may make.We gird us bravely to rebukeOur erring brother in the wrong,—And in the ear of Pride and PowerOur warning voice is strong.Easier to smite with Peter's swordThan "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 banksAnd Pharpar's brighter wave.O Thou, who in the garden's shadeDidst wake Thy weary ones again,Who slumbered at that fearful hourForgetful of Thy pain;Bend o'er us now, as over them,And set our sleep-bound spirits free,Nor leave us slumbering in the watchOur souls should keep with Thee!1841
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 doorOne sultry afternoon,With his young wife singing at his sideAn 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-cloudHung over the western hill.Black, thick, and vast arose that cloudAbove the wilderness,As some dark world from upper airWere stooping over this.At times the solemn thunder pealed,And all was still again,Save a low murmur in the airOf 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 hopeWas in his quiet glance,And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothedHis tranquil countenance,—A look, like that his Master woreIn Pilate's council-hall:It told of wrongs, but of a loveMeekly 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 menAre following in my track;The traces of the torturer's whipAre on my aged back;"And much, I fear, 't will peril theeWithin thy doors to takeA 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 nightBeneath the storm-cloud's frown.But while the sudden lightning's blazeFilled every cottage nook,And with the jarring thunder-rollThe loosened casements shook,A heavy tramp of horses' feetCame 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 rainThe parish priest he saw.Open thy door, thou wicked man,And let thy pastor in,And give God thanks, if forty stripesRepay 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-guestMade welcome to my hearth."Down from his cottage wall he caughtThe matchlock, hotly triedAt 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 freeTo bring the wrath and violenceOf 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 doorBack on its hinges fell."Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay,"The reckless scoffers cried,As to a horseman's saddle-bowThe old man's arms were tied.And of his bondage hard and longIn 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 pastBrood o'er that evil day."Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest,"Take Goodman Macy too;The sin of this day's heresyHis 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 shoreWas 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 thereThe 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, hungHis wig upon a thorn."Come back,—come back!" the parson cried,"The church's curse beware.""Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "butThy 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 quietlyFrom the twain upon the shore.Now in the west, the heavy cloudsScattered and fell asunder,While feebler came the rush of rain,And fainter growled the thunder.And through the broken clouds, the sunLooked out serene and warm,Painting its holy symbol-lightUpon 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'slopeThe small boat glided fast;The watchers of the Block-house sawThe strangers as they passed.That night a stalwart garrisonSat 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 oarUpon their waters play.Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threwTheir sunset-shadows o'er them,And Newbury's spire and weathercockPeered 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 eyeThe harbor-bar was crossed;A plaything of the restless wave,The boat on ocean tossed.The glory of the sunset heavenOn 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 garrisonShone like a setting star.How brightly broke the morningOn Massachusetts Bay!Blue wave, and bright green island,Rejoicing in the day.On passed the bark in safetyRound isle and headland steep;No tempest broke above them,No fog-cloud veiled the deep.Far round the bleak and stormy CapeThe venturous Macy passed,And on Nantucket's naked isleDrew 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 heavenNantucket's sails were spread;How pale Want alternatedWith Plenty's golden smile;Behold, is it not writtenIn the annals of the isle?And yet that isle remainethA refuge of the free,As when true-hearted MacyBeheld it from the sea.Free as the winds that winnowHer shrubless hills of sand,Free as the waves that batterAlong her yielding land.Than hers, at duty's summons,No loftier spirit stirs,Nor falls o'er human sufferingA readier tear then hers.God bless the sea-beat island!And grant forevermore,That charity and freedom dwellAs now upon her shore!1841.
ERE down yon blue Carpathian hillsThe 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 oldIs on my heart alway.For since the day when Warkworth woodClosed 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'erThe waste of wave and sky;So from the desert of my fateI gaze across the past;Forever on life's dial-plateThe 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 floorWhere Bethlehem's tapers shine;And by the Holy SepulchreI've pledged my knightly swordTo 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 lifeTo-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 keepAgainst my feeble will.And still the loves and joys of oldDo evermore uprise;I see the flow of locks of gold,The shine of loving eyes!Ah me! upon another's breastThose golden locks recline;I see upon another restThe 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 vowsCrush down thy human heart!"In vain! This heart its grief must know,Till life itself hath ceased,And falls beneath the self-same blowThe 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 hillThe sun shall fall again.1843