Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, "Come in, old man!" quoth she, "We will not leave thee to the storm, Whoever thou mayst be." Then came the aged wanderer in, And silent sat him down; While all within grew dark as night Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. But while the sudden lightning's blaze Filled every cottage nook, And with the jarring thunder-roll The loosened casements shook, A heavy tramp of horses' feet Came sounding up the lane, And half a score of horse, or more, Came plunging through the rain. "Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door,-- We would not be house-breakers; A rueful deed thou'st done this day, In harboring banished Quakers." Out looked the cautious goodman then, With much of fear and awe, For there, with broad wig drenched with rain The parish priest he saw. Open thy door, thou wicked man, And let thy pastor in, And give God thanks, if forty stripes Repay thy deadly sin." "What seek ye?" quoth the goodman; "The stranger is my guest; He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,-- Pray let the old man rest." "Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" And strong hands shook the door. "Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest, "Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore." Then kindled Macy's eye of fire "No priest who walks the earth, Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth." Down from his cottage wall he caught The matchlock, hotly tried At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, By fiery Ireton's side; Where Puritan, and Cavalier, With shout and psalm contended; And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, With battle-thunder blended. Up rose the ancient stranger then "My spirit is not free To bring the wrath and violence Of evil men on thee; "And for thyself, I pray forbear, Bethink thee of thy Lord, Who healed again the smitten ear, And sheathed His follower's sword. "I go, as to the slaughter led. Friends of the poor, farewell!" Beneath his hand the oaken door Back on its hinges fell. "Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," The reckless scoffers cried, As to a horseman's saddle-bow The old man's arms were tied. 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.