Narrative and Legendary Poems: the Vaudois Teacher and Others From Volume I., the Works of Whittier by Whittier, John Greenleaf, 1807-1892

Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, But on the fainting soul to shed A light and life divine--

Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at the long delay? Impatient of our Father's time And His appointed way?

Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die?

Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke Our erring brother in the wrong,-- And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer. Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord, Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save;

And murmur for Abana's banks And Pharpar's brighter wave.

O Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake Thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hour Forgetful of Thy pain;

Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee! 1841

THE EXILES.

The incidents upon which the following ballad has its foundation about the year 1660. Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not the first white settler of Nantucket. The career of Macy is briefly but carefully outlined in James S. Pike's The New Puritan.

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, 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."

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, "Come in, old man!" quoth she, "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.