Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/157

Rh “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 Gentry 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 lied 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