102 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear: "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" A weight seemed lifted from my heart,—a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea: "Pile my ship with bars of silver-pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me !—I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo than bear this child away!” "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?" I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn; Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 103 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. Thanksgiving to the Lord of life!-to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid! Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving-pour forth the grateful psalm ; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to ravish and devour: But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! Che Little Pilgrim. In a large old house with two kind aunts, And a happy child she was I ween, Her favourite haunt in the summer time, Was a large old Apple tree, And oft amid its boughs she sat, With her pet book on her knee. The "Pilgrim's Progress" was its name, And Marian loved it much; It is indeed a precious book, There are not many such. She read it in her little bed,And by the winter fire, And in summer in her Apple-tree, As though she ne'er could tire. But unexplained, 'tis just the book To puzzle a young brain, And the poor child had no kind friend, The meaning to explain. For though her aunts were very kind, They were not very wise, They only said, "dont read so child, For sure you'll hurt your eyes!" But Marian still went reading on, And visions strange and wild, Began to fill the little head, Of the lonely dreaming child. THE LITTLE PILGRIM. For she thought that Christian and his wife, And all his children too, Had left behind their pleasant home And done what she must do. I wish my aunts would go with me, They are so deaf, and rather lame, They'd think it quite a task. No! I must go alone, I see, And I'll not let them know, Or like poor Christian's friends, they'll say, But I must wait till some grand scheme, Can all their thoughts engage; And go on Pilgrimage." She had not waited long, before One fine autumnal day, She saw the large old coach arrive, To take her aunts away. "We're going out to spend the day," The two old ladies said, "We mean to visit Mrs. Blair, Poor soul, she's sick in bed. But Marian you must stay at home, The lady's ill you see, You can have your dinner if you like; In the large old Apple-tree. And play in the garden all the day, 105 106 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A few more parting words were said, A high, steep hill, which the sun at morn, The child had often thought; With hopeful visions fraught. Above the waving corn. "Ah, little lark, you sing," she said, I too will sing, for pleasant thoughts, Should now my mind engage. In sweet, clear strains she sung a hymn, And tripp'd lightly on her way, Until a pool of thick, soft mud, Across her pathway lay. "This is the Slough of Despond," she cried, Yet she bravely ventured thro' And safely reached the other side; But she lost one little shoe! |