THE goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air;

The dark green woods were still ; And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,

And stood before the farmer's door, With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope Was in his quiet glance,

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And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed

His tranquil countenance.

A look, like that his Master wore
In Pilate's council-hall:

It told of wrongs, - but of a love
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.

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee Within thy doors to take

A hunted seeker of the Truth,
Oppressed for conscience' sake."

O, kindly spoke the goodman's wife,
"Come in, old man!" quoth she,
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"We will not leave thee to the storm,
Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in,
And silent sat him down ;

| While all within grew dark as night Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaze
Filled every cottage nook,
And with the jarring thunder-roll
The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet

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,

rain,

The parish priest he saw.

heard,

With sickening childhood's wail,

It suits not with our tale to tell :
Those scenes have passed away,
Let the dim shadows of the past
Brood o'er that evil day.

"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest,

"Take Goodman Macey too; The sin of this day's heresy His back or purse shall rue."

"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey cried,

She caught his manly arm :Behind, the parson urged pursuit, With outcry and alarm.

Ho! speed the Maceys, neck or naught,—
The river-course was near;

The plashing on its pebbled shore
Was music to their ear.

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch,
Above the waters hung,

And at its base, with every wave,
A small light wherry swung.

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.

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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:

God bless the sea-beat island!
And grant forevermore,
That charity and freedom dwell
As now upon her shore !

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

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

Hushed within and hushed without, Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout; Dies the bonfire on the hill ; 11 is dark and all is still, ave the starlight, save the breeze Hoaning through the graveyard trees; nd the great sea-waves below, "ulse of the midnight beating slow.

rom the brief dream of a bride he hath wakened, at his side. With half-uttered shriek and start, eels she not his beating heart? _nd the pressure of his arm, nd his breathing near and warm?

ightly from the bridal bed
prings that fair dishevelled head,
nd a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Taiden fear and wonder speaks
hrough her lips and changing cheeks.

rom the oaken mantel glowing
aintest light the lamp is throwing
n the mirror's antique mould,
igh-backed chair, and wainscot old,
nd, through faded curtains stealing,
is dark sleeping face revealing.

stless lies the strong man there, lver-streaked his careless hair; ps of love have left no trace n that hard and haughty face nd that forehead's knitted thought Ove's soft hand hath not unwrought.

;

Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, ore than these calm lips will tell. cooping to my lowly state,

e hath made me rich and great, nd I bless him though he be

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,

Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade,
The fiery-winged cucullo played !
Yes, lovely was thine aspect, then,
Fair island of the Western Sea!
Lavish of beauty, even when
Thy brutes were happier than thy men,
For they, at least, were free!
Regardless of thy glorious clime,
Unmindful of thy soil of flowers,
The toiling negro sighed, that Time
No faster sped his hours.
For, by the dewy moonlight still,
He fed the weary-turning mill,
Or bent him in the chill morass,
To pluck the long and tangled grass,
And hear above his scar-worn back
The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack:
While in his heart one evil thought
In solitary madness wrought,
One baleful fire surviving still

The quenching of the immortal mind,
One sterner passion of his kind,
Which even fetters could not kill,
The savage hope, to deal, erelong,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!

Hark to that cry!-long, loud, and shrill,