So from his lost home to the darkening main, Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way, And, when the green shore blended with the gray, His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again." "Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he, And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer; And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear! So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea, Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age, The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage. Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores, And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw, Or heard the plashing of their weary oars. And every place whereon they rested grew Happier for pure and gracious womanhood, And men whose names for stainless honor stood, Founders of States and rulers wise and true. The Muse of history yet shall make amends To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught, Beyond their dark age led the van of thought, And left unforfeited the name of Friends. O mother State, how foiled was thy design The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine. THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN. The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Miirchen, Berlin, 1816. The ballad appeared first in St. Nicholas, whose young readers were advised, while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of past ages. THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er, To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore; And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the sea-surf played. Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's child was she. Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs and Trolls, The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without souls; And for every man and woman in Rugen's island found Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was underground. It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves and goblins play. That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had known Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns blown. She came not back; the search for her in field and wood was vain They cried her east, they cried her west, but she came not again. "She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the dream-wives wise and old, And prayers were made, and masses said, and Rambin's church bell tolled. Five years her father mourned her; and then John Deitrich said "I will find my little playmate, be she alive or dead." He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the Brown Dwarfs sing, And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a ring.