“But evil breaks the strongest gyves,
And jins like him have charmëd lives.
“One beaker of the juice of grape
May call him up in living shape.
“When the red wine of Badakshan
Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan!
“With water quench the fire within,
And drown each day thy devilkin!”
Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cup
As Shitan’s own, though offered up,
With laughing eyes and jewelled hands,
By Yarkand’s maids and Samarcand’s.
And, in the lofty vestibule
Of the medress of Kaush Kodul,
The students of the holy law
A golden-lettered tablet saw,
With these words, by a cunning hand,
Graved on it at the Khan’s command:
“In Allah’s name, to him who hath
A devil, Khan el Hamed saith,
“Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine:
The fiend that loves the breath of wine
“No prayer can slay, no marabout
Nor Meccan dervis can drive out.
“I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm
That robs him of his power to harm.
“Drown him, O Islam’s child! the spell
To save thee lies in tank and well!”
THE KING’S MISSIVE
1661
This ballad, originally written for The Memorial History of Boston, describes, with pardonable poetic license, a memorable incident in the annals of the city. The interview between Shattuck and the Governor took place, I have since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not in the Council Chamber. The publication of the ballad led to some discussion as to the historical truthfulness of the picture, but I have seen no reason to rub out any of the figures or alter the lines and colors.
Under the great hill sloping bare
To cove and meadow and Common lot,
In his council chamber and oaken chair,
Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.
A grave, strong man, who knew no peer
In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear
Of God, not man, and for good or ill
Held his trust with an iron will.
He had shorn with his sword the cross from out
The flag, and cloven the May-pole down,
Harried the heathen round about,
And whipped the Quakers from town to town.
Earnest and honest, a man at need
To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed,
He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal
The gate of the holy common weal.
His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,
With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath;
“Woe ’s me!” he murmured: “at every turn
The pestilent Quakers are in my path!
Some we have scourged, and banished some,
Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come,
Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,
Sowing their heresy’s seed of sin.
“Did we count on this? Did we leave behind
The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease
Of our English hearths and homes, to find
Troublers of Israel such as these?
Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid!
I will do as the prophet to Agag did:
They come to poison the wells of the Word,
I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!”
The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk
Entered, and whispered under breath,
“There waits below for the hangman’s work
A fellow banished on pain of death—
Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,
Brought over in Master Goldsmith’s ship
At anchor here in a Christian port,
With freight of the devil and all his sort!”
Twice and thrice on the chamber floor
Striding fiercely from wall to wall,
