Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour! But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad. For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. In September, 1661, Edward Burrough, a prominent Quaker of England, obtained an audience of King Charles II and laid the grievances of the New England Quakers before him. That careless King, who always found it more easy to grant a request than to refuse it, so long as it cost him nothing, directed that a letter be written to Endicott and the governors of the other New England colonies, commanding that "if there were any of those people called Quakers amongst them, now already condemned to suffer death, or other corporal punishment, or that were imprisoned, and obnoxious to the like condemnation, they were to forbear to proceed any further therein," and to send such persons to England for trial. This letter was given in charge to Samuel Shattuck, a Quaker of Salem, then in England under sentence of banishment, with the usual condition of being hanged should he return. He reached Boston in November, 1661, and presented himself with all haste at the governor's door. The ballad very accurately describes the interview which followed. THE KING'S MISSIVE [November, 1661] Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will. He had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, Harried the heathen round about, And whipped the Quakers from town to town. Earnest and honest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal The gate of the holy common weal. His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path! Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.