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

16   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.