Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung

His wig upon a thorn.

"Come back, - come back!" the parson cried,

"The church's curse beware." "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macey, "but

Thy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest,

"Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." "Who's born to be hanged, will not be drowned,"

Quoth Macey, merrily;

"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by!"

He bent him to his oar,
And the small boat glided quietly
From the twain upon the shore.

Now in the west, the heavy clouds
Scattered and fell asunder,
While feebler came the rush of rain,
And fainter growled the thunder.

And through the broken clouds, the

sun

Looked out serene and warm,

Painting its holy symbol-light
Upon the passing storm.

O, beautiful! that rainbow span,

O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; One bright foot touched the eastern

hills,

And one with ocean blended.

By green Pentucket's southern slope
The small boat glided fast,
The watchers of "the Block-house "

saw

The strangers as they passed.

That night a stalwart garrison Sat shaking in their shoes,

To hear the dip of Indian oars,
The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher-wives of Salisbury,
(The men were all away,)
Looked out to see the stranger oar
Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw

Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercock

Peered o'er the pines before them.

Around the Black Rocks, on their left,

The marsh lay broad and green: And on their right, with dwarf shrubs

Back the timid lustre fling, -
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha!-that start of horror! - Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
"Spare me, - spare me, - let me go!"

God have mercy! - Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the

meekest,

Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.