« ForrigeFortsæt »
O’er his face of moody sadness
For an instant shone
As he stooped him down
O'er his mossy seat,
Softly at his feet,
Autumn's earliest frost had given
To the woods below
Lendeth to its bow;
Far behind was Ocean striving
With his chains of sand;
'Twixt the swells of land,
Gazed that stranger man
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
Of a mighty wood,
Down the swift Powow,
Those clear waters now;
For the wood-bird's merry singing,
And the hunter's cheer,
Smote upon his ear;
Could it be, his fathers ever,
Loved to linger here? These bare hills—this conquer'd 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,
Blushed with sunset still,
seat Turned the Indian's
Year on year hath flown forever,
But he came no more
To the hill-side or the river
Where he came before.
With their fruits or flowers
In their school-day hours,
THE goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
An old and goodly tune.
The dark green woods were still;. And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.
Above the wilderness,
Were stooping over this.
And all was still again,
Of coming wind and rain.
Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
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-ball :
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.
Within thy doors to take
Oppressed for conscience sake.”
- Come in, old man!” quoth she,“ We will not leave thee to the storm
Whoever thou may'st be.”
Then came the aged wanderer in,
And silent sat him down;
Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.
But while the sudden lightning's blaze
Filled every cottage nook,
The loosened casements shook,
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,
The parish priest he saw.
And let thy pastor in,
Repay thy deadly sin.”
“ 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."