At last Pastorius bore Their warning message to the Church's door In God's name; and the leaven of the word Wrought ever after in the souls who heard, And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirred To troubled life, and urged the vain excuse Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use, Good in itself if evil in abuse.
Gravely Pastorius listened, not the less Discerning through the decent fig-leaf dress Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness.
One Scripture rule, at least, was unforgot; He hid the outcast, and betrayed him not; And, when his prey the human hunter sought, He scrupled not, while Anna's wise delay And proffered cheer prolonged the master's stay, To speed the black guest safely on his way.
Yet, who shall guess his bitter grief who lends His life to some great cause, and finds his friends Shame or betray it for their private ends?
How felt the Master when his chosen strove In childish folly for their seats above; And that fond mother, blinded by her love, Besought him that her sons, beside his throne, Might sit on either hand?
Amidst his own A stranger oft, companionless and lone, God's priest and prophet stands.

The martyr's pain Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain; Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train, His weak disciples by their lives deny The loud hosannas of their daily cry, And make their echo of his truth a lie.
His forest home no hermit's cell he found, Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around, And held armed truce upon its neutral ground.
There Indian chiefs with battle-bows unstrung, Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung, Pastorius fancied, when the world was young, Came with their tawny women, lithe and tall, Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck's hall, Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all.
There hungry folk in homespun drab and gray Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day, Genial, half merry in their friendly way.
Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland, Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand The New World's promise, sought his helping hand.
Or painful Kelpius (13) from his hermit den By Wissahickon, maddest of good men, Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.
Deep in the woods, where the small river slid Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid, Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid, Reading the books of Daniel and of John, And Behmen's Morning-Redness, through the Stone Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone, Whereby he read what man ne'er read before, And saw the visions man shall see no more, Till the great angel, striding sea and shore, Shall bid all flesh await, on land or ships, The warning trump of the Apocalypse, Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.
Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin Leaned o'er the gate; or Ranter, pure within, Aired his perfection in a world of sin.
Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der Graaf Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff, Till the red embers broke into a laugh And dance of flame, as if they fain would cheer The rugged face, half tender, half austere, Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear! Or Sluyter, (14) saintly familist, whose word As law the Brethren of the Manor heard, Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord, And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from his race, Above a wrecked world with complacent face Riding secure upon his plank of grace! Haply, from Finland's birchen groves exiled, Manly in thought, in simple ways a child, His white hair floating round his visage mild, The Swedish pastor sought the Quaker's door, Pleased from his neighbor's lips to hear once more His long-disused and half-forgotten lore.
For both could baffle Babel's lingual curse, And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearse Cleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding verse.
And oft Pastorius and the meek old man Argued as Quaker and as Lutheran, Ending in Christian love, as they began.
With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns he strayed Where Sommerhausen over vales of shade Looked miles away, by every flower delayed, Or song of bird, happy and free with one Who loved, like him, to let his memory run Over old fields of learning, and to sun Himself in Plato's wise philosophies, And dream with Philo over mysteries Whereof the dreamer never finds the keys; To touch all themes of thought, nor weakly stop For doubt of truth, but let the buckets drop Deep down and bring the hidden waters up (15) For there was freedom in that wakening time Of tender souls; to differ was not crime; The varying bells made up the perfect chime.
On lips unlike was laid the altar's coal, The white, clear light, tradition-colored, stole Through the stained oriel of each human soul.
Gathered from many sects, the Quaker brought His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought That moved his soul the creed his fathers taught.
One faith alone, so broad that all mankind Within themselves its secret witness find, The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind, The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide, Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied, The polished Penn and Cromwell's Ironside.
As still in Hemskerck's Quaker Meeting, (16) face By face in Flemish detail, we may trace How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace Sat in close contrast,--the clipt-headed churl, Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl By skirt of silk and periwig in curl For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-trove Made all men equal, none could rise above Nor sink below that level of God's love.
So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down, The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown, Pastorius to the manners of the town Added the freedom of the woods, and sought The bookless wisdom by experience taught, And learned to love his new-found home, while not Forgetful of the old; the seasons went Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent Of their own calm and measureless content.
Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing His song of welcome to the Western spring, And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.
And when the miracle of autumn came, And all the woods with many-colored flame Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame, Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a sound Spake to him from each kindled bush around, And made the strange, new landscape holy ground And when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift, Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift, He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift Of verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hash Of corn and beans in Indian succotash; Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash Of wit and fine conceit,--the good man's play Of quiet fancies, meet to while away The slow hours measuring off an idle day.
At evening, while his wife put on her look Of love's endurance, from its niche he took The written pages of his ponderous book.
And read, in half the languages of man, His "Rusca Apium," which with bees began, And through the gamut of creation ran.
Or, now and then, the missive of some friend In gray Altorf or storied Nurnberg penned Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend The night beneath his roof-tree.

Mystical The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal Human and sweet, as if each far, low tone, Over the roses of her gardens blown Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own.
Wise Spener questioned what his friend could trace Of spiritual influx or of saving grace In the wild natures of the Indian race.
And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch, Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook, To query with him of climatic change, Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range, Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.
And thus the Old and New World reached their hands Across the water, and the friendly lands Talked with each other from their severed strands.
Pastorius answered all: while seed and root Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit Along the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot; And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knew Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue, And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew.
No idler he; whoever else might shirk, He set his hand to every honest work,-- Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.
Still on the town seal his device is found, Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground, With "Vinum, Linum et Textrinum" wound.
One house sufficed for gospel and for law, Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw, Assured the good, and held the rest in awe.
Whatever legal maze he wandered through, He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view, And justice always into mercy grew.
No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor jail, Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail, The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land; The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand, And all men took his counsel for command.
Was it caressing air, the brooding love Of tenderer skies than German land knew of, Green calm below, blue quietness above, Still flow of water, deep repose of wood That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood And childlike trust in the Eternal Good, Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate, Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait The slow assurance of the better state?
Who knows what goadings in their sterner way O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?
What hate of heresy the east-wind woke?
What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?
Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn The sectary yielded to the citizen, And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.
Peace brooded over all.

No trumpet stung The air to madness, and no steeple flung Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.
The land slept well.

The Indian from his face Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase, Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,-- Giving to kindness what his native pride And lazy freedom to all else denied.
And well the curious scholar loved the old Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold, Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true To God and man than half the creeds he knew.
The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold; The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.
Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun.
About each rustic porch the humming-bird Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred, The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred; And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending, Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine, Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine, And all the subtle scents the woods combine.
Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm, Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm, Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel Of labor, winding off from memory's reel A golden thread of music.