John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary PoemsThe Exiles
T
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
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,
As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.
And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer’s door,
With travel soiled and lame.
Was in his quiet glance,
And peace, like autumn’s moonlight, clothed
His tranquil countenance,—
In Pilate’s council-hall:
It told of wrongs, but of a love
Meekly forgiving all.
The stranger meekly said;
And, leaning on his oaken staff,
The goodman’s features read.
Are following in my track;
The traces of the torturer’s whip
Are on my aged back;
Within thy doors to take
A hunted seeker of the Truth,
Oppressed for conscience’ sake.”
“Come in, old man!” quoth she,
“We will not leave thee to the storm,
Whoever thou mayst be.”
And silent sat him down;
While all within grew dark as night
Beneath the storm-cloud’s frown.
Filled every cottage nook,
And with the jarring thunder-roll
The loosened casements shook,
Came sounding up the lane,
And half a score of horse, or more,
Came plunging through the rain.
We would not be house-breakers;
A rueful deed thou ’st done this day,
In harboring banished Quakers.”
With much of fear and awe,
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain,
The parish priest he saw.
And let thy pastor in,
And give God thanks, if forty stripes
Repay thy deadly sin.”
“The stranger is my guest;
He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,—
Pray let the old man rest.”
And strong hands shook the door.
“Believe me, Macy,” quoth the priest,
“Thou ’lt rue thy conduct sore.”
“No priest who walks the earth,
Shall pluck away the stranger-guest
Made welcome to my hearth.”
The matchlock, hotly tried
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor,
By fiery Ireton’s side;
With shout and psalm contended;
And Rupert’s oath, and Cromwell’s prayer,
With battle-thunder blended.
“My spirit is not free
To bring the wrath and violence
Of evil men on thee;
Bethink thee of thy Lord,
Who healed again the smitten ear,
And sheathed His follower’s sword.
Friends of the poor, farewell!”
Beneath his hand the oaken door
Back on its hinges fell.
The reckless scoffers cried,
As to a horseman’s saddle-bow
The old man’s arms were tied.
In Boston’s crowded jail,
Where suffering woman’s prayer was heard,
With sickening childhood’s wail,
Those scenes have passed away;
Let the dim shadows of the past
Brood o’er that evil day.
“Take Goodman Macy too;
The sin of this day’s heresy
His back or purse shall rue.”
She caught his manly arm;
Behind, the parson urged pursuit,
With outcry and alarm.
The river-course was near;
The plashing on its pebbled shore
Was music to their ear.
Above the waters hung,
And at its base, with every wave,
A small light wherry swung.
The goodman wields his oar;
“Ill luck betide them all,” he cried,
“The laggards on the shore.”
The burly sheriff came:—
“Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself;
Yield in the King’s own name.”
Bold Macy answered then,—
“Whip women, on the village green,
But meddle not with men.”
His grave cocked hat was gone;
Behind him, like some owl’s nest, hung
His wig upon a thorn.
“The church’s curse beware.”
“Curse, an’ thou wilt,” said Macy, “but
Thy blessing prithee spare.”
“Thou ’lt yet the gallows see.”
“Who ’s born to be hanged will not be drowned,”
Quoth Macy, merrily;
He bent him to his oar,
And the small boat glided quietly
From the twain upon the shore.
Scattered and fell asunder,
While feebler came the rush of rain,
And fainter growled the thunder.
Looked out serene and warm,
Painting its holy symbol-light
Upon the passing storm.
O’er dim Crane-neck was bended;
One bright foot touched the eastern hills,
And one with ocean blended.
The small boat glided fast;
The watchers of the Block-house saw
The strangers as they passed.
Sat shaking in their shoes,
To hear the dip of Indian oars,
The glide of birch canoes.
The men were all away—
Looked out to see the stranger oar
Upon their waters play.
Their sunset-shadows o’er them,
And Newbury’s spire and weathercock
Peered o’er the pines before them.
The marsh lay broad and green;
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned,
Plum Island’s hills were seen.
The harbor-bar was crossed;
A plaything of the restless wave,
The boat on ocean tossed.
On land and water lay;
On the steep hills of Agawam,
On cape, and bluff, and bay.
And Gloucester’s harbor-bar;
The watch-fire of the garrison
Shone like a setting star.
On Massachusetts Bay!
Blue wave, and bright green island,
Rejoicing in the day.
Round isle and headland steep;
No tempest broke above them,
No fog-cloud veiled the deep.
The venturous Macy passed,
And on Nantucket’s naked isle
Drew up his boat at last.
They braved the rough sea-weather;
And there, in peace and quietness,
Went down life’s vale together;
And how their fishing sped,
Until to every wind of heaven
Nantucket’s sails were spread;
With Plenty’s golden smile;
Behold, is it not written
In the annals of the isle?
A refuge of the free,
As when true-hearted Macy
Beheld it from the sea.
Her shrubless hills of sand,
Free as the waves that batter
Along her yielding land.
No loftier spirit stirs,
Nor falls o’er human suffering
A readier tear than hers.
And grant forevermore,
That charity and freedom dwell
As now upon her shore!