I fear, by birth and breeding: I perceive it With sorrow, seeing on how fair a stock The unlucky graft is set.

CAPTAIN.

Why then, alas
For that poor Annabel! if she must have
This farther cause to rue our baneful factions.
The wretched strife already hath entail'd
Upon her luckless family the loss

Of fair possessions, friends, and native land!
And now a chance hath offer'd, which to her,
I trow, might largely make amends for all :
It would be hard indeed, when all things seem
To square so well-youth, opportunity,
Their fortunes one, the natural dower of each
So equal, and so bountifully given,
A dying Mother's blessing to crown all-
It would be hard indeed, should loyalty
Forbid the banns.

They have hid among them the two regicides,
Shifting from den to cover, as we found

Where the scent lay. But earth them as they will,
I shall unkennel them, and from their holes
Drag them to light and justice.

CAPTAIN.

There hath been

Much wholesome sickness thrown away, Sir Randolph,
On your strong stomach ! Two sea voyages
Have not sufficed to clear the bile wherewith
You left New England!

RANDOLPH.

Nay, it rises in me

As I draw near their shores.

Howbeit 'twill win him
Worship and friends in the city of the Saints;
And, to the ears of sober Boston men,
Oliver will be a name more savoury
Than Tribulation, or Stand-fast-in-the-Lord,
Increase or Nathan, Gershom, Ichabod,
Praise-God, or any of the Barebones breed.
They rise upon the Oak-holyday with faces
A full inch longer than they took to bed:
Experienced nurses feed their babes that day
By spoon, because the mother's milk is sour;
And when they mourn upon the Martyrdom,
"Tis for the expiation, not the crime.

Oh they love dearly one of the precious seed!
Tyburn, since Sixty, in their secret hearts
Holds place of Calvary. For Saints and Martyrs,
None like their own Hugh Peters, and the heads
On the Hall your only relics! Fifteen years

CAPTAIN.

Why then, look shortly For a sharp fit; for, if the sky tell true, Anon we shall have wind, and to our wish.

So spake the Captain, for his eye, Versed in all signs and weathers, Discern'd faint traces in the eastern sky, Such as a lion's paw might leave Upon the desart, when the sands are dry. The dog-vane now blows out with its light feathers; And lo! the Ship, which like a log hath lain, Heavily rolling on the long slow swell, Stirs with her proper impulse now, and gathers A power like life beneath the helmsman's will. Her head lies right; the rising breeze Astern comes rippling o'er the seas; A tramp of feet! a sound of busy voices! The cordage rattles, and the topsails fill; All hands are active, every heart rejoices.

Blest with fair seas, and favourable skies,
Right for her promised land
The gallant vessel flies;
Far, far behind her now
The foamy furrow lies;

Like dust around her prow

The ocean spray is driven.

O thou fair creature of the human hand!
Thou, who wert palsied late,
When the dead calm lay heavy on the deep,
Again hast thou received the breath of Heaven,
And, waking from thy sleep,

As strength again to those broad wings is given,
Thou puttest forth thy beauty and thy state!
Hold on with happy winds thy prosperous way,
And may no storm that goodly pride abate,
Nor baffling airs thy destined course delay,
Nor the sea-rover seize thee for his prey;
But minist'ring Angels wait
To watch for thee, against all ill event,
From man, or from the reckless element.
Thou hast a richer freight
Than ever vessel bore from Ophir old,
Or spicey India sent,
Or Lisbon welcomed to her joyful quay
From her Brazilian land of gems and gold:
Thou carriest pious hope, and pure desires,

Such as approving Angels might behold;

A heart of finest mould,

A spirit that aspires

To Heaven, and draws its flame from heavenly fires;
Genius, Devotion, Faith,
Stronger than Time or Death,
A temper of the high heroic mood,
By that strong faith exalted, and subdued
To a magnanimous fortitude.

The blossom of all virtues dost thou bear,
The seed of noble actions! Go thy way
Rejoicingly, from fear and evil free:

These shall be thy defence,

Beneath the all-present arm of Providence,
Against all perils of the treacherous sea.

III.

CAPE COD.

DAYS pass, winds veer, and favouring skies Change like the face of fortune; storms arise; Safely, but not within her port desired, The good ship lies.

Where the long sandy Cape
Bends and embraces round,

As with a lover's arm, the shelter'd sea,
A haven she hath found

From adverse gales and boisterous billows free.

Now strike your sails,

Ye toilworn mariners, and take your rest Long as the fierce north-west

In that wild fit prevails,

Tossing the waves uptorn with frantic sway. Keep ye within the bay, Contented to delay

Your course till the elemental madness cease, And Heaven and Ocean are again at peace.

How gladly there,

Sick of the uncomfortable ocean, The impatient passengers approach the shore; Escaping from the sense of endless motion, To feel firm earth beneath their feet once more, To breathe again the air

With taint of bilge and cordage undefiled, And drink of living springs, if there they may, And with fresh fruits and wholesome food repair Their spirits, weary of the watery way.

And oh how beautiful
The things of earth appear
To eyes that far and near

For many a week have seen
Only the circle of the restless sea!

With what a fresh delight

They gaze again on fields and forests green, Hovel, or whatsoe'er

May bear the trace of man's industrious hand; How grateful to their sight

The shore of shelving sand,

As the light boat moves joyfully to land!

Woods they beheld, and huts, and piles of wood, And many a trace of toil,

But not green fields or pastures. "Twas a land Of pines and sand;

Dark pines, that from the loose and sparkling soil Rose in their strength aspiring: far and wide They sent their searching roots on every side, And thus, by depth and long extension, found Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous ground: So had they risen and flourish'd; till the earth, Unstable as its neighbouring ocean there, Like an unnatural mother, heap'd around Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high; And stifled thus the living things it bare. Half buried thus they stand,

Their summits sere and dry,

Marking, like monuments, the funeral mound; As when the masts of some tall vessel show Where, on the fatal shoals, a wreck lies whelm'd below.

Such was the ungenial earth; nor was the air
Fresh and delightful there :

A noisome taint upon the breath it bore;
For they who dwelt upon that sandy shore,
Of meadows or of gardens took no care;
They sow'd not, neither did they reap:
The ocean was their field, their flocks and herds
The myriad-moving armies of the deep;

The whale their mighty chase, whose bones bestrew'd
The sandy margin of that ample bay,
And all about, in many a loathly heap,
The offal and the reeking refuse lay,
Left there for dogs obscene and carrion birds a prey.

Oliver, as they approach'd, said thoughtfully; "It was within this bay

That they, into the wilderness who bore The seeds of English faith and liberty, First set their feet upon the shore. Here they put in, escaping from the rage Of tempests, and by treacherous pilotage Led, as it seem'd to fallible men, astray: But God was with them; and the Providence Which errs not, had design'd his people's way."

"A blessed day for England had it been," Randolph exclaim'd, "had Providence thought good, If the whole stern round-headed brotherhood Had follow'd, man and woman great and small; New England might have prosper'd with the brood, Or seas and sharks been welcome to them all."

"Alas, how many a broken family Hath felt that bitter wish!" the Youth replied; And, as he spake, he breathed a silent sigh. "The wounded heart is prone to entertain Presumptuous thoughts and feelings, which arraign The appointed course of things. But what are we, Short-sighted creatures of an hour, That we should judge? In part alone we see, And this but dimly. He, who ordereth all, Beholdeth all, at once, and to the end: Upon His wisdom and His power, His mercy and His boundless love, we rest; And resting thus in humble faith, we know, Whether the present be for weal or woe, For us whatever is must needs be best."

Thus, while he spake, the boat had reach'd the land;
And, grating gently, rested on the sand.
They step ashore; the dwellers gather nigh:
"Whence comes the vessel? whither is she bound?"
Then for Old England's welfare they inquire;—
Eager alike for question and reply,
With open lips and ears attending round; -
What news of war, and plague, and plots, and fire?
Till satisfied of these, with cheerful care
The board and bowl they hasten to prepare ;
Each active in his way,

Glad of some lawful business, that may break The tedium of an idle Sabbath-day.

But, from the stir of that loquacious crew, Oliver meantime apart from all withdrew. Beyond the bare and sapless pines, which stood Half-overwhelm'd with sand,

He pass'd, and entering in the wood, Indulged his burthen'd heart in solitude. "Thou Earth! receive me, from my native land An unoffending exile! Hear my claim! In search of wealth I have not sought thy shore, Nor covetous of fame,

Nor treading in the ambitious steps of power; But hiding from the world a hapless name, And sacrificing all

At holiest Duty's call,

Thou barbarous Land, of thee I only crave For those I love concealment and a grave."

Thus he relieved his breast; yet did not dare Allow himself full utterance, even there: To part he gave a voice; and then, in fear, Shaped with his lips, inaudibly, the rest: With that the very air

Might not be trusted; and he look'd around, Alarm'd, lest human ear

Had caught the unfinish'd sound. Some tears stole down his cheek, now not repress'd, And, kneeling on the earth, he kiss'd the ground.

Unbidden thoughts then took their course, and drew
The future and the past before his view:
The haunts, the friendships, and the hopes of youth-
All, all forsaken; - no dear voice,
Ever again to bid his heart rejoice!
Familiar scenes and faces

Only in dreams should he behold again;
But, in their places,

The wilderness, wild beasts, and savage men!

Soon from that poignant thought
His soul upon the wings of hope took flight;
And strong imagination brought
Visions of joy before his inward sight.
Of regions yet by Englishmen unsought,
And ancient woods, was that delightful dream,-
The broad savannah, and the silver stream.
Fair bowers were there, and gardens smiled,
And harvests flourish'd in the wild;

And, while he made Redeeming Love his theme,
Savage no longer now-
The Indians stood around,

And drank salvation with the sound.

One Christian grave was there, Turf'd well, and weeded by his pious care, And redolent of many a fragrant flower And herb profusely planted all about. Within his bower

An old man sate, in patience and in peace, While the low sands of life ran out, Awaiting his release.

That old man laid his hand upon his head, And blest him daily, when the day was done; And Heaven was open to him, and he saw His Mother's Spirit smile, and bless her son.

Thus to the voluntary dream resign'd
He lay, while blended sounds of air and sea
Lull'd his unconscious mind
With their wild symphony.
The wind was in the pines, awakening there
A sea-like sound continuous, and a swell
At fitful intervals, that mingled well
With ocean's louder roar,
When the long curling waves,

Reach after reach in regular rising, fell
Upon the sandy shore.

Long might he thus have lain, but that, in tones
Which seem'd of haste to tell,

Once, twice, and thrice pronounced he heard his name: Too sweetly to his ears the accents came, Breathed from the gentle lips of Annabel.

With hurried pace she comes, and flush'd in face,
And with a look, half-pity, half-affright,
Which, while she spake, enlarged her timid eyes:
"O, Sir! I have seen a piteous sight!"
The shuddering Maiden cries;
"A poor wild woman. Woe is me! among
What worse than heathen people are we thrown?
Beasts, in our England, are not treated thus,—
Our very stones would rise
Against such cruelties!

But you, perhaps, can reach the stony heart, — Oh come, then, and perform your Christian part."

She led him hastily toward a shed,
Where, fetter'd to the door-post, on the ground
An Indian woman sate. Her hands were bound,
Her shoulders and her back were waled and scored
With recent stripes. A boy stood by,
Some seven years old, who with a piteous eye
Beheld his suffering mother, and deplored
Her injuries with a cry,

Deep, but not loud, -an utterance that express'd
The mingled feelings swelling in his breast,-
Instinctive love intense, the burning sense
Of wrong, intolerable grief of heart,
And rage, to think his arm could not fulfil
The pious vengeance of his passionate will.
His sister by the door
Lay basking in the sun: too young was she
To feel the burthen of their misery;
Reckless of all that pass'd, her little hand
Play'd idly with the soft and glittering sand.

At this abhorred sight,

Had there been place for aught But pity, half-relieved by indignation,

They would have seen that Indian woman's face
Not with surprise alone, but admiration:
With such severe composure, such an air
Of stern endurance, did she bear

Her lot of absolute despair.
You rather might have deem'd,

So fix'd and hard the strong bronze features seem'd,
That they were of some molten statue part,
Than the live sentient index of a heart
Suffering and struggling with extremest wrong:
But that the coarse jet hair upon her back
Hung loose, and lank, and long,

And that sometimes she moved her large black eye, And look'd upon the boy who there stood weeping by.

Oliver in vain attempted to assuage, With gentle tones and looks compassionate, The bitterness of that young Indian's rage. The boy drew back abhorrent from his hand, Eyed him with fierce disdain, and breathed In inarticulate sounds his deadly hate. Not so the mother; she could understand His thoughtful pity, and the tears which fell Copiously down the cheeks of Annabel. Touch'd by that unaccustom'd sympathy Her countenance relax'd: she moved her head As if to thank them both;

RANDOLPH.

I warrant him!

No mother like your squaw to train a child In the way she would have him go; she makes him subtler

Than the sly snake, untameable as bear

Or buffalo, fierce as a famish'd wolf,

And crueller than French judges, Spanish friars,
Or Dutchmen in the East. His earliest plaything
Is a green scalp, and then, for lollipop,
The toasted finger of an Englishman!
Young as he is, I dare be sworn he knows
Where is the liveliest part to stick a skewer
Into a prisoner's flesh, and where to scoop
The tenderest mouthful. If the Devil himself
Would learn devices to afflict the damn'd
With sharper torments, he might go to school
To a New England savage.

CAPE'S-MAN.

I perceive, Sir, You know them well. Perhaps you may have heard Of this young deviling's father; — he was noted For a most bloody savage in his day : They called him Kawnacom.

RANDOLPH.

What! Kawnacom,

CAPE'S-MAN.

Why, Sir, you reckon rightly; and, methinks,
Without a conjuror's skill you well may think so
Those fetters, and the marks upon her skin,
Speak her deserts. On week-days with the whip
We keep her tightly to her work; but thus
Her Sabbath must be spent, or she would put
The wilderness between her and her owner.
An honest dealer never paid good money
For a worse piece and for that boy of hers,
He is a true-bred savage, blood and bone,
To the marrow and heart's core.

By their bed-side. And, what is worst, they know

not

How far the league extends, nor whom to trust Among these treacherous tribes. Old people say That things were not so bad in the Pequod war.

RANDOLPH.

What then, have we been idle?

CAPE'S-MAN

Hitherto

But little has been done. The evil found us
Lapp'd in security, and unprepared:

Nor know we where to strike, nor whom, so darkly
The mischief hath been laid.

RANDOLPH.

Strike where we will, So we strike hard, we cannot err. The blow That rids us of an Indian does good service.

OLIVER.

That were a better service which should win The savage to your friendship.

CAPE'S-MAN.

You are young, Sir, And, I perceive, a stranger in the land; Or you would know how bootless is the attempt To tame and civilise these enemies, Man-beasts, or man-fiends,-call them which you

will,

Their monstrous nature being half brute, half devil,
Nothing about them human but their form.
He, who expends his kindness on a savage
Thinking to win his friendship, might as wisely
Plant thorns and hope to gather grapes at vintage.

OLIVER.

Look but to Martha's Vineyard, and behold
On your own shores the impossibility
Achieved. -the standing miracle display'd
In public view, apparent to all eyes,
And famous through all countries wheresoe'er
The Gospel truth is known! Many are the hearts
In distant England which have overflow'd
With pious joy to read of Hiacoomes,
Whose prayerful house the pestilence past by;
And blind Wawompek,- he, within whose doors
The glad thanksgiving strain of choral praise
Fails not, at morn and eve, from year to year;
And the Sachem, who rejoiced because the time
Of light was come, and now his countrymen,
Erring and lost, no longer should go down
In ignorance and darkness to the grave;
And poor old Lazarus, that rich poor man,
The child of poverty, but rich in faith
And his assured inheritance in Heaven.

RANDOLPH.

Young Sir, it is with stories as with men ; That credit oftentimes they gain abroad, Which, either for misluck or misdesert, They fail to find at home.

OLIVER.

Are these things false, then?
Is there no truth in Mayhew's life of love?
Hath not the impatient Welshman's zeal, that blazed
Even like a burning and consuming fire,
Refined itself into a steady light

Among the Indians?—and the name of Williams,
The signal once for strife where'er he went,
Become a passport and a word of peace
Through savage nations? Or is this a tale
Set forth to mock our weak credulity;
And all that holy Eliot hath perform'd
Only a fable cunningly devised ?

CAPE'S-MAN.

He comes out qualified to lecture us Upon our own affairs!

RANDOLPH.

The things you talk of Serve but with us to comfort our old women, Furnish an elder with some choice discourse For a dull synod, and sometimes help out Sir Spintext at a pinch, when he would think it A sin did he dismiss his hungry flock

Before the second glass be fairly spent.

Much have you read, and have believed as largely; And yet one week's abode in the colony

Will teach you more than all your English reading.

OLIVER.

Sir, I am easy of belief, for that way
My temper leads mc,-liable to err;
And yet, I hope, not obstinate in error;
But ready still to thank the riper judgment
That may correct my inexperienced years.
You paint the Indians to the life, I doubt not:
Children of sin, and therefore heirs of wrath,
The likeness of their Heavenly Sire in them
Seems utterly defaced; and in its stead,
Almost, it might be thought, the Evil Power
Had set his stamp and image. This should move us
The more to deep compassion; men ourselves,

In whom the accident of birth alone

Makes all this awful difference! And remembering,
That from our common parent we derive
Our nature's common malady innate,
For which our common Saviour offers us
The only cure, -oh! ought we not to feel
How good and merciful a deed it were