Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/47

Rh not the first white settler of Nantucket. The career of Macy is briefly but carefully outlined in James S. Pike’s The New Puritan.

goodman sat beside his door,
 * One sultry afternoon,

With his young wife singing at his side
 * An 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-cloud
 * Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
 * Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
 * Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
 * And all was still again,

Save a low murmur in the air
 * Of 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 hope
 * Was in his quiet glance,

And peace, like autumn’s moonlight, clothed
 * His tranquil countenance,—

A look, like that his Master wore
 * In Pilate’s council-hall:

It told of wrongs, but of a love
 * Meekly 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 men
 * Are following in my track;

The traces of the torturer’s whip
 * Are on my aged back;

“And much, I fear, ’t will peril thee
 * Within thy doors to take

A 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 night
 * Beneath the storm-cloud’s frown.

But while the sudden lightning’s blaze
 * Filled every cottage nook,

And with the jarring thunder-roll
 * The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses’ feet
 * Came 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 rain,
 * The parish priest he saw.

“Open thy door, thou wicked man,
 * And let thy pastor in.

And give God thanks, if forty stripes
 * Repay 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-guest
 * Made welcome to my hearth.”

Down from his cottage wall he caught
 * The matchlock, hotly tried

At Preston-pans and Marston-moor,
 * By fiery Ireton’s side;