The present horror deepened all The fears her childhood knew; The awe wherewith the air was filled With every breath she drew.
And could it be, she trembling asked, Some secret thought or sin Had shut good angels from her heart And let the bad ones in?
Had she in some forgotten dream Let go her hold on Heaven, And sold herself unwittingly To spirits unforgiven?
Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed; No human sound she heard, But up and down the chimney stack The swallows moaned and stirred.
And o'er her, with a dread surmise Of evil sight and sound, The blind bats on their leathern wings Went wheeling round and round.
Low hanging in the midnight sky Looked in a half-faced moon.
Was it a dream, or did she hear Her lover's whistled tune?
She forced the oaken scuttle back; A whisper reached her ear "Slide down the roof to me," it said, "So softly none may hear."
She slid along the sloping roof Till from its eaves she hung, And felt the loosened shingles yield To which her fingers clung.
Below, her lover stretched his hands And touched her feet so small; "Drop down to me, dear heart," he said, "My arms shall break the fall."
He set her on his pillion soft, Her arms about him twined; And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, They left the house behind.
But when they reached the open way, Full free the rein he cast; Oh, never through the mirk midnight Rode man and maid more fast.
Along the wild wood-paths they sped, The bridgeless streams they swam; At set of moon they passed the Bass, At sunrise Agawam.
At high noon on the Merrimac The ancient ferryman Forgot, at times, his idle oars, So fair a freight to scan.
And when from off his grounded boat He saw them mount and ride, "God keep her from the evil eye, And harm of witch!" he cried.
The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh At all its fears gone by; "He does not know," she whispered low, "A little witch am I."
All day he urged his weary horse, And, in the red sundown, Drew rein before a friendly door In distant Berwick town.
A fellow-feeling for the wronged The Quaker people felt; And safe beside their kindly hearths The hunted maiden dwelt,
Until from off its breast the land The haunting horror threw, And hatred, born of ghastly dreams, To shame and pity grew.
Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad Its golden summer day, But blithe and glad its withered fields, And skies of ashen gray;
For spell and charm had power no more, The spectres ceased to roam, And scattered households knelt again Around the hearths of home.
And when once more by Beaver Dam The meadow-lark outsang, And once again on all the hills The early violets sprang,
And all the windy pasture slopes Lay green within the arms Of creeks that bore the salted sea To pleasant inland farms,
The smith filed off the chains he forged, The jail-bolts backward fell; And youth and hoary age came forth Like souls escaped from hell.
1877
KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS
OUT from Jerusalem The king rode with his great War chiefs and lords of state, And Sheba's queen with them;
Comely, but black withal, To whom, perchance, belongs That wondrous Song of songs, Sensuous and mystical,
Whereto devout souls turn In fond, ecstatic dream, And through its earth-born theme The Love of loves discern.
Proud in the Syrian sun, In gold and purple sheen, The dusky Ethiop queen Smiled on King Solomon.
Wisest of men, he knew The languages of all The creatures great or small That trod the earth or flew.
Across an ant-hill led The king's path, and he heard Its small folk, and their word He thus interpreted:
"Here comes the king men greet As wise and good and just, To crush us in the dust Under his heedless feet."
The great king bowed his head, And saw the wide surprise Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes As he told her what they said.
"O king!" she whispered sweet, "Too happy fate have they Who perish in thy way Beneath thy gracious feet!
"Thou of the God-lent crown, Shall these vile creatures dare Murmur against thee where The knees of kings kneel down?"
"Nay," Solomon replied, "The wise and strong should seek The welfare of the weak,"
And turned his horse aside.
His train, with quick alarm, Curved with their leader round The ant-hill's peopled mound, And left it free from harm.
The jewelled head bent low; "O king!" she said, "henceforth The secret of thy worth And wisdom well I know.
"Happy must be the State Whose ruler heedeth more The murmurs of the poor Than flatteries of the great."
1877.
IN THE "OLD SOUTH."
On the 8th of July, 1677, Margaret Brewster with four other Friends went into the South Church in time of meeting, "in sack-cloth, with ashes upon her head, barefoot, and her face blackened," and delivered "a warning from the great God of Heaven and Earth to the Rulers and Magistrates of Boston." For the offence she was sentenced to be "whipped at a cart's tail up and down the Town, with twenty lashes."
SHE came and stood in the Old South Church, A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore, Half-crazed and half-divine.
Save the mournful sackcloth about her wound, Unclothed as the primal mother, With limbs that trembled and eyes that blazed With a fire she dare not smother.
Loose on her shoulders fell her hair, With sprinkled ashes gray; She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird As a soul at the judgment day.
And the minister paused in his sermon's midst, And the people held their breath, For these were the words the maiden spoke Through lips as the lips of death: