Alpha Book

And of his bondage hard and long
In Boston's crowded jail,
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard,
With sickening childhood's wail,
It suits not with our tale to tell;
Those scenes have passed away;
Let the dim shadows of the past
Brood o'er that evil day.
"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest,
"Take Goodman Macy too;
The sin of this day's heresy
His back or purse shall rue."
"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macy cried.
She caught his manly arm;
Behind, the parson urged pursuit,
With outcry and alarm.
Ho! speed the Macys, neck or naught,--
The river-course was near;
The plashing on its pebbled shore
Was music to their ear.
A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch,
Above the waters hung,
And at its base, with every wave,
A small light wherry swung.
A leap--they gain the boat--and there
The goodman wields his oar;
"Ill luck betide them all," he cried,
"The laggards on the shore."
Down through the crashing underwood,
The burly sheriff came:--
"Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself;
Yield in the King's own name.


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