Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/48

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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.