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

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.

Ho! speed the Maceys, 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 upon the shore."

By green Pentucket's southern slope
The small boat glided fast,
The watchers of "the Block-house" saw
The strangers as they passed.

That night a stalwart garrison
Sat shaking in their shoes,
To hear the dip of Indian oars,
The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher-wives of Salisbury,
(The men were all away,)
Looked out to see the stranger oar
Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw

Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercock Peered o'er the pines before them.

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.

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

39

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.

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!"

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:

me

Fear not! give the dead her own!"

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!"

66

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 mountain 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,

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 fame Told where the midnight tempest came, With blood and fire along its van, And death behind!- he was a Man!

Yes, dark-souled chieftain !—if the light
Of mild Religion's heavenly ray
Unveiled not to thy mental sight

The lowlier and the purer way,
In which the Holy Sufferer trod,
Meekly amidst the sons of crime,
That calm reliance upon God

For justice in his own good time,
That gentleness to which belongs
Forgiveness for its any wrongs,
Even as the primal martyr, kneeling
For mercy on the evil-dealing, -
Let not the favored white man name
Thy stern appeal, with words of blame.
Has he not, with the light of heaven

Broadly around him, made the same? Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven, And gloried in his ghastly shame ? Kneeling amidst his brother's blood, To offer mockery unto God, As if the High and Holy One Could smile on deeds of murder done!As if a human sacrifice Were purer in his Holy eyes, Though offered up by Christian hands, Than the foul rites of Pagan lands!

Sternly, amidst his household band,