Let the scoffer scorn and mock,

Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock,

For his wine-cup and his feast,Redden not thy bolts in store

Through the blackness of thy skies? For the sighing of the poor

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?

Worn and wasted, oh! how long

Shall thy trodden poor complain? In thy name they bear the wrong,

In thy cause the bonds of pain! Melt oppression's heart of steel,

Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel,

That in us they mock at Thee!

In thy time, O Lord of hosts,

Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave! Lead us from this evil land,

From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship thee!

THE FOUNTAIN.

TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling
By the swift Powow,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heated brow,

Listen, while all else is still,

To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing
By that streamlet's side,
And a greener verdure showing
Where its waters glide,-

Down the hill-slope murmuring on,
Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth
O'er the sloping hill,

Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill,

Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, Gushing up to sun and air.

Brighter waters sparkled never

In that magic well,

Of whose gift of life forever

Ancient legends tell,-

In the lonely desert wasted,
And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian 31
Sought with longing eyes,
Underneath the bright pavilion
Of the Indian skies;
Where his forest pathway lay
Through the blooms of Florida.

Years ago a lonely stranger,
With the dusky brow
Of the outcast forest-ranger,
Crossed the swift Powow;
And betook him to the rill
And the oak upon the hill.

O'er his face of moody sadness
For an instant shone
Something like a gleam of gladness,

As he stooped him down
To the fountain's grassy side,
And his eager thirst supplied.

With the oak its shadow throwing

O'er his mossy seat,

And the cool, sweet waters flowing
Softly at his feet,

Closely by the fountain's rim
That lone Indian seated him.

Autumn's earliest frost had given
To the woods below

Hues of beauty, such as heaven
Lendeth to its bow;

And the soft breeze from the west
Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving
With his chains of sand;
Southward, sunny glimpses giving,
"Twixt the swells of land,
Of its calm and silvery track,
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack.

Over village, wood, and meadow
Gazed that stranger man,
Sadly, till the twilight shadow
Over all things ran,

Save where spire and westward pane
Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling

Of his warrior sires,

Where no lingering trace was telling

Of their wigwam fires,

Who the gloomy thoughts might know Of that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,
Hills that once had stood

Down their sides the shadows throwing
Of a mighty wood,

Where the deer his covert kept,
And the eagle's pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glided
Down the swift Powow,
Dark and gloomy bridges strided
Those clear waters now;

And where once the beaver swam,
Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.

For the wood-bird's merry singing,
And the hunter's cheer,
Iron clang and hammer's ringing
Smote upon his ear;

And the thick and sullen smoke

From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be his fathers ever

Loved to linger here?

These bare hills, this conquered river,—

Could they hold them dear,

With their native loveliness
Tamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of even
Gathered o'er the hill,
While the western half of heaven

Blushed with sunset still,

From the fountain's mossy seat Turned the Indian's weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,
But he came no more
To the hillside or the river
Where he came before.
But the villager can tell

Of that strange man's visit well.

And the merry children, laden With their fruits or flowers,—

Roving boy and laughing maiden,
In their school-day hours,
Love the simple tale to tell
Of the Indian and his well.

THE EXILES.

1660.

THE 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."

O, 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 Macey, 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,

35

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, Macey," quoth the priest,—

Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore."

Then kindled Macey'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;

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 Macey too;
The sin of this day's heresy

His back or purse shall rue."

"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey cried,
She caught his manly arm:-
Behind, the parson urged pursuit,
With outcry and alarm.

Around the Black Rocks, on their left,
The marsh lay broad and green;
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs
crowned,

Plum Island's hills were seen.

With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed;A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed.

The glory of the sunset heaven
On land and water lay,-
On the steep hills of Agawam,
On cape, and bluff, and bay.

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann,
And Gloucester's harbor-bar;

The watch-fire of the garrison
Shone like a setting star.

How brightly broke the morning
On Massachusetts Bay!
Blue wave, and bright green island,
Rejoicing in the day.

On passed the bark in safety

Round isle and headland steep,No tempest broke above them,

No fog-cloud veiled the deep.

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape
The vent'rous Macey passed,
And on Nantucket's naked isle
Drew up his boat at last.

And how, in log-built cabin,

They braved the rough sea-weather; And there, in peace and quietness, Went down life's vale together:

How others drew around them,
And how their fishing sped,
Until to every wind of heaven
Nantucket's sails were spread;

How pale Want alternated With Plenty's golden smile; Behold, is it not written

In the annals of the isle ?

And yet that isle remaineth
A refuge of the free,
As when true-hearted Macey
Beheld it from the sea.

Free as the winds that winnow
Her shrubless hills of sand,—
Free as the waves that batter
Along her yielding land.

Than hers, at duty's summons,
No loftier spirit stirs,-
Nor falls o'er human suffering
A readier tear than hers.

God bless the sea-beat island!-
And grant forevermore,
That charity and freedom dwell
As now upon her shore !

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

DARK the halls, and cold the feast,-
Gone the bridesmaids, gone the priest:
All is over,-all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!

Blooming girl and manhood gray,
Autumn in the arms of May!

Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the graveyard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Pulse of the midnight beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half-uttered shriek and start,-
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?

Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, More than these calm lips will tell. Stooping to my lowly state,

He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling,-
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha!-that start of horror!-Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
"Spare me,-spare me,-let me go!"

God have mercy!-Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,

Ah!-the dead wife's voice she knows!
That cold hand, whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream,- -an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
Tremblingly her hand she raises,-
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,-
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,

And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and childlike on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,

O'er the guilty hearts behind

An unwitting triumph find.

37

38

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 32

"T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down Its beauty on the Indian isle,

On broad green field and white-walled town; And inland waste of rock and wood, In searching sunshine, wild and rude, Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam, Soft as the landscape of a dream, All motionless and dewy wet,

Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met
The myrtle with its snowy bloom,
Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom,-
The white cecropia's silver rind
Relieved by deeper green behind,--
The orange with its fruit of gold,-
The lithe paullinia's verdant fold,-
The passion-flower, with symbol holy,
Twining its tendrils long and lowly,-
The rhexias dark, and cassia tall,
And proudly rising over all,
The kingly palm's imperial stem,
Crowned with its leafy diadem,
Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade,
The fiery-winged cucullo played!
Yes,-lovely was thine aspect, then,
Fair island of the Western Sea!
Lavish of beauty, even when
Thy brutes were happier than thy men,
For they, at least, were free!
Regardless of thy glorious clime,
Unmindful of thy soil of flowers,
The toiling negro sighed, that Time
No faster sped his hours.
For, by the dewy moonlight still,
He fed the weary-turning mill,
Or bent him in the chill morass,
To pluck the long and tangled grass,
And hear above his scar-worn back
The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack:
While in his heart one evil thought
In solitary madness wrought,
One baleful fire surviving still

The quenching of the immortal mind,
One sterner passion of his kind,
Which even fetters could not kill,-
The savage hope, to deal, erelong,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!

Hark to that cry!-long, loud, and shrill,
From field and forest, rock and hill,
Thrilling and horrible it rang,
Around, beneath, above;-
The wild beast from his cavern sprang,
The wild bird from her grove!
Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony
Were mingled in that midnight cry;
But like the lion's growl of wrath,
When falls that hunter in his path
Whose barbed arrow, deeply set,
Is rankling in his bosom yet,

It told of hate, full, deep, and strong,
Of vengeance kindling out of wrong;
It was as if the crimes of years-
The unrequited toil, the tears,
The shame and hate, which liken well
Earth's garden to the nether hell-
Had found in nature's self a tongue,
On which the gathered horror hung;
As if from cliff, and stream, and glen
Burst on the startled ears of men
That voice which rises unto God,

Solemn and stern, -the cry of blood!
It ceased, and all was still once more,
Save ocean chafing on his shore,
The sighing of the wind between
The broad banana's leaves of green,
Or bough by restless plumage shook,
Or murmuring voice of inountain brook.

Brief was the silence. Once again

Pealed to the skies that frantic yell,
Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain,
And flashes rose and fell;

And painted on the blood-red sky,
Dark, naked arms were tossed on high;
And, round the white man's lordly hall,

Trod, fierce and free, the brute he made;
And those who crept along the wall,
And answered to his lightest call

With more than spaniel dread,-
The creatures of his lawless beck,-
Were trampling on his very neck!
And on the night-air, wild and clear,
Rose woman's shriek of more than fear;
For bloodied arms were round her thrown,
And dark cheeks pressed against her own!

Then, injured Afric!--for the shame
Of thy own daughters, vengeance came
Full on the scornful hearts of those,
Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes,
And to thy hapless children gave
One choice,-pollution or the grave!
Where then was he whose fiery zeal
Had taught the trampled heart to feel,
Until despair itself grew strong,

And vengeance fed its torch from wrong?
Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding;
Now, when oppression's heart is bleeding;.
Now, when the latent curse of Time

Is raining down in fire and blood,

That curse which, through long years of crime,
Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood,-
Why strikes he not, the foremost one,
Where murder's sternest deeds are done?

He stood the aged palms beneath,

That shadowed o'er his humble door, Listening, with half-suspended breath, To the wild sounds of fear and death, Toussaint l'Ouverture!

What marvel that his heart beat high!
The blow for freedom had been given,
And blood had answered to the cry
Which Earth sent up to Heaven!
What marvel that a fierce delight
Smiled grimly o'er his brow of night,-
As groan and shout and bursting flame
Told where the midnight tempest came,
With blood and fire along its van,
And death behind!-he was a Man!