This world may full of Devils be, All ready to devour us;Yet not so sore afraid are we, They shall not overpower us.
This World's Prince, howe'er Fierce he may appear, He can harm us not, He is doomed, God wot!
One little word can slay him!
Incredible it seems to some And to myself a mystery, That such weak flesh and blood as we, Armed with no other shield or sword, Or other weapon than the Word, Should combat and should overcome A spirit powerful as he!
He summons forth the Pope of Rome With all his diabolic crew, His shorn and shaven retinue Of priests and children of the dark;Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, Who rouseth up all Christendom Against us; and at one fell blow Seeks the whole Church to overthrow!
Not yet; my hour is not yet come.
Yesterday in an idle mood, Hunting with others in the wood, I did not pass the hours in vain, For in the very heart of all The joyous tumult raised around, Shouting of men, and baying of hound, And the bugle's blithe and cheery call, And echoes answering back again, From crags of the distant mountain chain,--In the very heart of this, I found A mystery of grief and pain.
It was an image of the power Of Satan, hunting the world about, With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, His bishops and priests and theologues, And all the rest of the rabble rout, Seeking whom he may devour!
Enough I have had of hunting hares, Enough of these hours of idle mirth, Enough of nets and traps and gins!
The only hunting of any worth Is where I can pierce with javelins The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, The Roman Pope and the Roman priests That sorely infest and afflict the earth!
Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air!
The fowler hath caught you in his snare, And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, Singing the song that never tires, To lure down others from their nests;How ye flutter and heat your breasts, Warm and soft with young desires, Against the cruel, pitiless wires, Reclaiming your lost heritage!
Behold! a hand unbars the door, Ye shall be captives held no more.
The Word they shall perforce let stand, And little thanks they merit!
For He is with us in the land, With gifts of his own Spirit!
Though they take our life, Goods, honors, child and wife, Lot these pass away, Little gain have they;The Kingdom still remaineth!
Yea, it remaineth forevermore, However Satan may rage and roar, Though often be whispers in my ears:
What if thy doctrines false should be?
And wrings from me a bitter sweat.
Then I put him to flight with jeers, Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me;If thou thinkest I am not saved yet!
And my mortal foes that lie in wait In every avenue and gate!
As to that odious monk John Tetzel, Hawking about his hollow wares Like a huckster at village fairs, And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, And all the busy, multifarious Heretics, and disciples of Arius, Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, They are not worthy of my regard, Poor and humble as I am.
But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, He is the vilest miscreant That ever walked this world below A Momus, making his mock and mow, At Papist and at Protestant, Sneering at St.John and St.Paul, At God and Man, at one and all;And yet as hollow and false and drear, As a cracked pitcher to the ear, And ever growing worse and worse!
Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse On Erasmus, the Insincere!
Philip Melanethon! thou alone Faithful among the faithless known, Thee I hail, and only thee!
Behold the record of us three!
Res et verba Philippus, Res sine verbis Lutherus;Erasmus verba sine re!
My Philip, prayest thou for me?
Lifted above all earthly care, From these high regions of the air, Among the birds that day and night Upon the branches of tall trees Sing their lauds and litanies, Praising God with all their might, My Philip, unto thee I write,My Philip! thou who knowest best All that is passing in this breast;The spiritual agonies, The inward deaths, the inward hell, And the divine new births as well, That surely follow after these, As after winter follows spring;My Philip, in the night-time sing This song of the Lord I send to thee;And I will sing it for thy sake, Until our answering voices make A glorious antiphony, And choral chant of victory!
PART THREE
THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES
JOHN ENDICOTT
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
JOHN ENDICOTT Governor.
JOHN ENDICOTT His son.
RICHARD BELLINGHAM Deputy Governor.
JOHN NORTONMinister of the Gospel.
EDWARD BUTTER Treasurer.
WALTER MERRY Tithing-man.
NICHOLAS UPSALLAn old citizen.
SAMUEL COLELandlord of the Three Mariners.
SIMON KEMPTHORN
RALPH GOLDSMITHSea-Captains.
WENLOCK CHRISTISON
EDITH, his daughter EDWARD WHARTON Quakers Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, etc.
The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665.
PROLOGUE.
To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest;And bring to light, upon the blotted page, The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.
Rise, then, O buried city that hast been;Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door, The Meeting-house with leaden—latticed panes, The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!
Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last;Let us behold your faces, let us hear The words ye uttered in those days of fear Revisit your familiar haunts again,--The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet Once more upon the pavement of the street!
Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart;For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene.
"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end?