"Stand, Goodman Macey, -yield thyself;

Yield in the King's own name."

"Now out upon thy hangman's face!" Bold Macey answered then, — "Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men.

The priest came panting to the shore, His grave cocked hat was gone; Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn.

"Come back, - come back!" the parson cried,

"The church's curse beware." "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macey, "but

Thy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest,

"Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." "Who's born to be hanged, will not be drowned,"

Quoth Macey, merrily;

"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by!"

He bent him to his oar,
And the small boat glided quietly
From the twain upon the shore.

Now in the west, the heavy clouds
Scattered and fell asunder,
While feebler came the rush of rain,
And fainter growled the thunder.

And through the broken clouds, the sun
Looked out serene and warm,
Painting its holy symbol-light
Upon the passing storm.

O, beautiful! that rainbow span,
O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; -
One bright foot touched the eastern
hills,

And one with ocean blended.

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.

5a

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.
With skilful hand and wary eye

The harbor-bar was crossed; -
A plaything of the restless wave,
The boat on ocean tossed.

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

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:

DARK the halls, and cold the feast,
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest :.
All is over, all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood gray,
Autumn in the arms of May!

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

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha! that start of horror!- Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
"Spare me, spare me,- let me go !'

God have mercy! - Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,

Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

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:
"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!"

"Nay, a dream, - an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
Tremblingly her hand she raises,
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, -
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was
cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife'sarms he shrinketh;

Can those soft arms round him lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest Soothed and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocence

53

Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meek-

est,

Lifting from those dark, still places, Sweet and sad-remembered faces, O'er the guilty hearts behind

An unwitting triumph find.