BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS.
1660.
On a painting by E. A. Abbey. The General Court of Massachusetts enacted Oct. 19, 1658, that "any person or persons of the cursed sect of Quakers" should, on conviction of the same, be banished, on pain of death, from the jurisdiction of the common-wealth.
OVER the threshold of his pleasant home
Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend,
In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.
"Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come
To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze
The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,—
The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming,
The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,—
And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide."
Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound,
Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound.
"Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried.
They left behind them more than home or land,
And set sad faces to an alien strand.
Safer with winds and waves than human wrath,
With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for God
Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod
Drear leagues of forest without guide or path,
Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea,
Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite ground
The waves to foam, their perilous way they wound,
Enduring all things so their souls were free.
Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did
Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers bore
For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more,
Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid
Faithful as they who sought an unknown land,
O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand!
So from his lost home to the darkening main,
Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way,
And, when the green shore blended with the gray,
His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again."
"Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he,
And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer;
And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear!
So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea,
Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave
With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground
Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found
A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave
Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age,
The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.
Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores,
And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw
The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw,
Or heard the plashing of their weary oars.
And every place whereon they rested grew
Happier for pure and gracious womanhood,
And men whose names for stainless honor stood,
Founders of States and rulers wise and true.
The Muse of history yet shall make amends
To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught,
Beyond their dark age led the van of thought,
And left unforfeited the name of Friends.
O mother State, how foiled was thy design
The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.
Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend,
In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.
"Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come
To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze
The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,—
The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming,
The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,—
And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide."
Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound,
Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound.
"Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried.
They left behind them more than home or land,
And set sad faces to an alien strand.
Safer with winds and waves than human wrath,
With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for God
Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod
Drear leagues of forest without guide or path,
Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea,
Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite ground
The waves to foam, their perilous way they wound,
Enduring all things so their souls were free.
Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did
Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers bore
For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more,
Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid
Faithful as they who sought an unknown land,
O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand!
So from his lost home to the darkening main,
Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way,
And, when the green shore blended with the gray,
His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again."
"Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he,
And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer;
And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear!
So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea,
Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave
With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground
Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found
A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave
Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age,
The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.
Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores,
And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw
The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw,
Or heard the plashing of their weary oars.
And every place whereon they rested grew
Happier for pure and gracious womanhood,
And men whose names for stainless honor stood,
Founders of States and rulers wise and true.
The Muse of history yet shall make amends
To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught,
Beyond their dark age led the van of thought,
And left unforfeited the name of Friends.
O mother State, how foiled was thy design
The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.
THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN.
The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Murchen, Berlin, 1816. The ballad appeared first in St. Nicholas, whose young readers were advised, while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of past ages.
THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er,
To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian
shore;
And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid
Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the
sea-surf played.
Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree
He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's
child was she.
Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs
and Trolls,
The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without
souls;
And for every man and woman in Rugen's island
found
Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was
underground.
It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled
away
Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves
and goblins play.
That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had
known
Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns
blown.
She came not back; the search for her in field and
wood was vain
They cried her east, they cried her west, but she
came not again.
"She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the
dream-wives wise and old,
And prayers were made, and masses said, and
Rambin's church bell tolled.
Five years her father mourned her; and then John
Deitrich said
"I will find my little playmate, be she alive or
dead."
He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the
Brown Dwarfs sing,
And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a
ring.
And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his cap
of red,
Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust it
on his head.
The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept for
lack of it.
"Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great
head unfit!"
"Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws his
charmed cap away,
Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly
pay.
"You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the
earth;
And you shall ope the door of glass and let me
lead her forth."
"She will not come; she's one of us; she's
mine!" the Brown Dwarf said;
The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow we
shall wed."
"The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "and
keep thy foul tongue still.
Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door of
the hill!"
The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, the
long stair-way passed,
And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange
and vast.
Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin
under-land,—
Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden
sand.
He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richly
spread,
Where a young maiden served to him the red wine
and the bread.
How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and
so wild!
Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never
smiled!
Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tender
blue eyes seemed
Like something he had seen elsewhere or some.
thing he had dreamed.
He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knew
the long-lost one;
"O Lisbeth! See thy playmate—I am the
Amptman's son!"
She leaned her fair head on his breast, and through
her sobs she spoke
"Oh, take me from this evil place, and from the
elfin folk,
"And let me tread the grass-green fields and smell
the flowers again,
And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear the
dropping rain!
"And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling of
the tree,
The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of
the sea;
"And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the
door,
And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin
church once more!"
He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the Brown
Dwarf groaned to see,
And tore his tangled hair and ground his long
teeth angrily.
But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tender
Christian maid
Has served you in your evil world and well must
she be paid!
"Haste!—hither bring me precious gems, the
richest in your store;
Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll take
your cap once more."
No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring,
he obeyed,
And filled the pockets of the youth and apron of
the maid.
They left the dreadful under-land and passed the
gate of glass;
They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the
soft, green grass.
And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up
to them his brown
And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red
cap down.
Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so
blue,
As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant
meadows through!
And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's
woods before,
And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic
shore;
And when beneath his door-yard trees the father
met his child,
The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks
with joy ran wild.
To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian
shore;
And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid
Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the
sea-surf played.
Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree
He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's
child was she.
Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs
and Trolls,
The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without
souls;
And for every man and woman in Rugen's island
found
Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was
underground.
It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled
away
Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves
and goblins play.
That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had
known
Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns
blown.
She came not back; the search for her in field and
wood was vain
They cried her east, they cried her west, but she
came not again.
"She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the
dream-wives wise and old,
And prayers were made, and masses said, and
Rambin's church bell tolled.
Five years her father mourned her; and then John
Deitrich said
"I will find my little playmate, be she alive or
dead."
He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the
Brown Dwarfs sing,
And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a
ring.
And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his cap
of red,
Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust it
on his head.
The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept for
lack of it.
"Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great
head unfit!"
"Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws his
charmed cap away,
Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly
pay.
"You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the
earth;
And you shall ope the door of glass and let me
lead her forth."
"She will not come; she's one of us; she's
mine!" the Brown Dwarf said;
The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow we
shall wed."
"The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "and
keep thy foul tongue still.
Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door of
the hill!"
The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, the
long stair-way passed,
And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange
and vast.
Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin
under-land,—
Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden
sand.
He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richly
spread,
Where a young maiden served to him the red wine
and the bread.
How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and
so wild!
Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never
smiled!
Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tender
blue eyes seemed
Like something he had seen elsewhere or some.
thing he had dreamed.
He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knew
the long-lost one;
"O Lisbeth! See thy playmate—I am the
Amptman's son!"
She leaned her fair head on his breast, and through
her sobs she spoke
"Oh, take me from this evil place, and from the
elfin folk,
"And let me tread the grass-green fields and smell
the flowers again,
And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear the
dropping rain!
"And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling of
the tree,
The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of
the sea;
"And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the
door,
And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin
church once more!"
He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the Brown
Dwarf groaned to see,
And tore his tangled hair and ground his long
teeth angrily.
But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tender
Christian maid
Has served you in your evil world and well must
she be paid!
"Haste!—hither bring me precious gems, the
richest in your store;
Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll take
your cap once more."
No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring,
he obeyed,
And filled the pockets of the youth and apron of
the maid.
They left the dreadful under-land and passed the
gate of glass;
They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the
soft, green grass.
And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up
to them his brown
And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red
cap down.
Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so
blue,
As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant
meadows through!
And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's
woods before,
And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic
shore;
And when beneath his door-yard trees the father
met his child,
The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks
with joy ran wild.