Chapter II

Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake Upon the young girl's shone, Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes, Her yellow hair outblown.

By happy youth and love attuned To natural harmonies, The singing birds, the whispering wind, She sat beneath the trees.

Sat shaping for her bridal dress Her mother's wedding gown, When lo! the marshal, writ in hand, From Alford hill rode down.

His face was hard with cruel fear, He grasped the maiden's hands "Come with me unto Salem town, For so the law commands!"

"Oh, let me to my mother say Farewell before I go!" He closer tied her little hands Unto his saddle bow.

"Unhand me," cried she piteously, "For thy sweet daughter's sake." "I'll keep my daughter safe," he said, "From the witch of Wenham Lake."

"Oh, leave me for my mother's sake, She needs my eyes to see." "Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck From off the gallows-tree."

He bore her to a farm-house old, And up its stairway long, And closed on her the garret-door With iron bolted strong.

The day died out, the night came down Her evening prayer she said, While, through the dark, strange faces seemed To mock her as she prayed.

The present horror deepened all The fears her childhood knew; The awe wherewith the air was filled With every breath she drew.

And could it be, she trembling asked, Some secret thought or sin Had shut good angels from her heart And let the bad ones in?

Had she in some forgotten dream Let go her hold on Heaven, And sold herself unwittingly To spirits unforgiven?

Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed; No human sound she heard, But up and down the chimney stack The swallows moaned and stirred.

And o'er her, with a dread surmise Of evil sight and sound, The blind bats on their leathern wings Went wheeling round and round.

Low hanging in the midnight sky Looked in a half-faced moon. Was it a dream, or did she hear Her lover's whistled tune?

She forced the oaken scuttle back; A whisper reached her ear "Slide down the roof to me," it said, "So softly none may hear."

She slid along the sloping roof Till from its eaves she hung, And felt the loosened shingles yield To which her fingers clung.

Below, her lover stretched his hands And touched her feet so small; "Drop down to me, dear heart," he said, "My arms shall break the fall."

He set her on his pillion soft, Her arms about him twined; And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, They left the house behind.

But when they reached the open way, Full free the rein he cast; Oh, never through the mirk midnight Rode man and maid more fast.

Along the wild wood-paths they sped, The bridgeless streams they swam; At set of moon they passed the Bass, At sunrise Agawam.

At high noon on the Merrimac The ancient ferryman Forgot, at times, his idle oars, So fair a freight to scan.

And when from off his grounded boat He saw them mount and ride, "God keep her from the evil eye, And harm of witch!" he cried.

The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh At all its fears gone by; "He does not know," she whispered low, "A little witch am I."

All day he urged his weary horse, And, in the red sundown, Drew rein before a friendly door In distant Berwick town.

A fellow-feeling for the wronged The Quaker people felt; And safe beside their kindly hearths The hunted maiden dwelt,

Until from off its breast the land The haunting horror threw, And hatred, born of ghastly dreams, To shame and pity grew.

Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad Its golden summer day, But blithe and glad its withered fields, And skies of ashen gray;

For spell and charm had power no more, The spectres ceased to roam, And scattered households knelt again Around the hearths of home.

And when once more by Beaver Dam The meadow-lark outsang, And once again on all the hills The early violets sprang,

And all the windy pasture slopes Lay green within the arms Of creeks that bore the salted sea To pleasant inland farms,

The smith filed off the chains he forged, The jail-bolts backward fell; And youth and hoary age came forth Like souls escaped from hell. 1877

KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS

OUT from Jerusalem The king rode with his great War chiefs and lords of state, And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal, To whom, perchance, belongs That wondrous Song of songs, Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn In fond, ecstatic dream, And through its earth-born theme The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun, In gold and purple sheen, The dusky Ethiop queen Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew The languages of all The creatures great or small That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led The king's path, and he heard Its small folk, and their word He thus interpreted:

"Here comes the king men greet As wise and good and just, To crush us in the dust Under his heedless feet."

The great king bowed his head, And saw the wide surprise Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes As he told her what they said.

"O king!" she whispered sweet, "Too happy fate have they Who perish in thy way Beneath thy gracious feet!

"Thou of the God-lent crown, Shall these vile creatures dare Murmur against thee where The knees of kings kneel down?"

"Nay," Solomon replied, "The wise and strong should seek The welfare of the weak," And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm, Curved with their leader round The ant-hill's peopled mound, And left it free from harm.

The jewelled head bent low; "O king!" she said, "henceforth The secret of thy worth And wisdom well I know.

"Happy must be the State Whose ruler heedeth more The murmurs of the poor Than flatteries of the great." 1877.

IN THE "OLD SOUTH."

On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered "a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes."

SHE came and stood in the Old South Church, A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore, Half-crazed and half-divine.

Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound, Unclothed as the primal mother, With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed With a fire she dare not smother.

Loose on her shoulders fell her hair, With sprinkled ashes gray; She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird As a soul at the judgment day.

And the minister paused in his sermon's midst, And the people held their breath, For these were the words the maiden spoke Through lips as the lips of death:

"Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet All men my courts shall tread, And priest and ruler no more shall eat My people up like bread!

"Repent! repent! ere the Lord shall speak In thunder and breaking seals Let all souls worship Him in the way His light within reveals."

She shook the dust from her naked feet, And her sackcloth closer drew, And into the porch of the awe-hushed church She passed like a ghost from view.

They whipped her away at the tail o' the cart Through half the streets of the town, But the words she uttered that day nor fire Could burn nor water drown.

And now the aisles of the ancient church By equal feet are trod, And the bell that swings in its belfry rings Freedom to worship God!

And now whenever a wrong is done It thrills the conscious walls; The stone from the basement cries aloud And the beam from the timber calls.

There are steeple-houses on every hand, And pulpits that bless and ban, And the Lord will not grudge the single church That is set apart for man.

For in two commandments are all the law And the prophets under the sun, And the first is last and the last is first, And the twain are verily one.

So, long as Boston shall Boston be, And her bay-tides rise and fall, Shall freedom stand in the Old South Church And plead for the rights of all! 1877.

THE HENCHMAN.

MY lady walks her morning round, My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir, And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers, And Rathburn side is gay with flowers; But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird, Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers; The least of all her worshippers, The dust beneath her dainty heel, She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm!--she cannot know Where'er she goes with her I go; Oh, cold and fair!--she cannot guess I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, I rob their ears of her sweet talk; Her suitors come from east and west, I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words, I greet her with the song of birds; I reach her with her green-armed bowers, I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail, The wind and I uplift her veil; As if the calm, cold moon she were, And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share The license of the sun and air, And in a common homage hide My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near, I breathe her charmed atmosphere, Wherein to her my service brings The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name, My dumb devotion shall not shame; The love that no return doth crave To knightly levels lifts the slave,

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die! 1877.

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK.

E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. "When a Ho or Munda," he says, "has been burned on the funeral pile, collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man's favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the aborigines of India." In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, vol. ix., p. 795, is a Ho dirge.

WE have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have swept the floor, We have boiled the rice. Come hither, come hither! Come from the far lands, Come from the star lands, Come as before! We lived long together, We loved one another; Come back to our life. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Child, husband, and wife, For you we are sighing. Come take your old places, Come look in our faces, The dead on the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice For the feast of souls. Come hither, come hither! Think not we fear you, Whose hearts are so near you. Come tenderly thought on, Come all unforgotten, Come from the shadow-lands, From the dim meadow-lands Where the pale grasses bend Low to our sighing. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and friend, The dead to the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door You entered so oft; For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice soft. Come you who are dearest To us who are nearest, Come hither, come hither, From out the wild weather; The storm clouds are flying, The peepul is sighing; Come in from the rain. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and lover, Beneath our roof-cover. Look on us again, The dead on the dying, Come home!

We have opened the door! For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals We may kindle no more! Snake, fever, and famine, The curse of the Brahmin, The sun and the dew, They burn us, they bite us, They waste us and smite us; Our days are but few In strange lands far yonder To wonder and wander We hasten to you. List then to our sighing, While yet we are here Nor seeing nor hearing, We wait without fearing, To feel you draw near. O dead, to the dying Come home! 1879.

THE KHAN'S DEVIL. THE Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown.

"My head is sick, my hands are weak; Thy help, O holy man, I seek."

In silence marking for a space The Khan's red eyes and purple face,

Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread, "Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said.

"Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan. Rid me of him at once, O man!"

"Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mine Can slay that cursed thing of thine.

"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink Water of healing on the brink

"Where clear and cold from mountain snows, The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.

"Six moons remain, then come to me; May Allah's pity go with thee!"

Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.

Roots were his food, the desert dust His bed, the water quenched his thirst;

And when the sixth moon's scimetar Curved sharp above the evening star,

He sought again the santon's door, Not weak and trembling as before,

But strong of limb and clear of brain; "Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain."

"Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned, The curst one lies in death-like swound.

"But evil breaks the strongest gyves, And jins like him have charmed 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!" 1879.

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, "The Lord do so to me and more," The Governor cried, "if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, "By the king's command I bear his message and stand in his stead." In the Governor's hand a missive he laid With the royal arms on its seal displayed, And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,-- "The king commandeth your friends' release; Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, His loyal servant, questioneth not. You are free! God grant the spirit you own May take you from us to parts unknown."

So the door of the jail was open cast, And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den Tender youth and girlhood passed, With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.

And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear, In the strength of a love that cast out fear, Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the cross beside.

One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side, And much scourged Wharton of Salem took His burden of prophecy up and cried "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms; Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, The sumach added its crimson fleck, And double in air and water showed The tinted maples along the Neck; Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist, And gentian fringes of amethyst, And royal plumes of golden-rod, The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw The world about them; they only thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God had wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily followed them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din. Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn "Men of Boston, give God the praise No more shall innocent blood call down The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you, Is dear to all, and to all is due.

"I see the vision of days to come, When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blend And as one great prayer to God ascend, And hands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston town, Whose painful ministers sighed to see The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no wrong; With milder counsels the State grew strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit perishing not, To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot That severed the chains of a continent. With its gentler mission of peace and good-will The thought of the Quaker is living still, And the freedom of soul he prophesied Is gospel and law where the martyrs died. 1880.

VALUATION.

THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate, And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by, "In spite of my bank stock and real estate, You are better off, Deacon, than I.

"We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near, You have less of this world to resign, But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear, Will reckon up greater than mine.

"They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor, I wish I could swap with you even The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store For the shillings and pence you have given."

"Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewd common sense, While his eye had a twinkle of fun, "Let your pounds take the way of my shillings and pence, And the thing can be easily done!" 1880.

RABBI ISHMAEL.

"Rabbi Ishmael Ben Elisha said, Once, I entered into the Holy of Holies [as High Priest] to burn incense, when I saw Aktriel [the Divine Crown] Jah, Lord of Hosts, sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, who said unto me, 'Ishmael, my son, bless me.' I answered, 'May it please Thee to make Thy compassion prevail over Thine anger; may it be revealed above Thy other attributes; mayest Thou deal with Thy children according to it, and not according to the strict measure of judgment.' It seemed to me that He bowed His head, as though to answer Amen to my blessing."-- Talmud (Beraehoth, I. f. 6. b.)

THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin Of the world heavy upon him, entering in The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face With terrible splendor filling all the place. "O Ishmael Ben Elisha!" said a voice, "What seekest thou? What blessing is thy choice?" And, knowing that he stood before the Lord, Within the shadow of the cherubim, Wide-winged between the blinding light and him, He bowed himself, and uttered not a word, But in the silence of his soul was prayer "O Thou Eternal! I am one of all, And nothing ask that others may not share. Thou art almighty; we are weak and small, And yet Thy children: let Thy mercy spare!" Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the place Of the insufferable glory, lo! a face Of more than mortal tenderness, that bent Graciously down in token of assent, And, smiling, vanished! With strange joy elate, The wondering Rabbi sought the temple's gate. Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stood And cried aloud unto the multitude "O Israel, hear! The Lord our God is good! Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace; Beyond his judgments shall his love endure; The mercy of the All Merciful is sure!" 1881.

THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE.

H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula (ii. 166) mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the poem.

A DREAR and desolate shore! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves Green grass for the hunter's tread; A land forsaken and dead, Where the ghostly icebergs go And come with the ebb and flow Of the waters of Bradore!

A wanderer, from a land By summer breezes fanned, Looked round him, awed, subdued, By the dreadful solitude, Hearing alone the cry Of sea-birds clanging by, The crash and grind of the floe, Wail of wind and wash of tide. "O wretched land!" he cried, "Land of all lands the worst, God forsaken and curst! Thy gates of rock should show The words the Tuscan seer Read in the Realm of Woe Hope entereth not here!"

Lo! at his feet there stood A block of smooth larch wood, Waif of some wandering wave, Beside a rock-closed cave By Nature fashioned for a grave; Safe from the ravening bear And fierce fowl of the air, Wherein to rest was laid A twenty summers' maid, Whose blood had equal share Of the lands of vine and snow, Half French, half Eskimo. In letters uneffaced, Upon the block were traced The grief and hope of man, And thus the legend ran "We loved her! Words cannot tell how well! We loved her! God loved her! And called her home to peace and rest. We love her."

The stranger paused and read. "O winter land!" he said, "Thy right to be I own; God leaves thee not alone. And if thy fierce winds blow Over drear wastes of rock and snow, And at thy iron gates The ghostly iceberg waits, Thy homes and hearts are dear. Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dust Is sanctified by hope and trust; God's love and man's are here. And love where'er it goes Makes its own atmosphere; Its flowers of Paradise Take root in the eternal ice, And bloom through Polar snows!" 1881.