Thomas Macy was one of the first, if not the first white settler of Nantucket.

The career of Macy is briefly but carefully outlined in James S.Pike's The New Puritan.
THE goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side An old and goodly tune.
A glimmer of heat was in the air,-- The dark green woods were still; And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud Hung over the western hill.
Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud Above the wilderness, As some dark world from upper air Were stooping over this.
At times the solemn thunder pealed, And all was still again, Save a low murmur in the air Of coming wind and rain.
Just as the first big rain-drop fell, A weary stranger came, And stood before the farmer's door, With travel soiled and lame.
Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope Was in his quiet glance, And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed His tranquil countenance,-- A look, like that his Master wore In Pilate's council-hall: It told of wrongs, but of a love Meekly forgiving all.
"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here ?" The stranger meekly said; And, leaning on his oaken staff, The goodman's features read.
"My life is hunted,--evil men Are following in my track; The traces of the torturer's whip Are on my aged back; "And much, I fear, 't will peril thee Within thy doors to take A hunted seeker of the Truth, Oppressed for conscience' sake." 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.
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." "Now out upon thy hangman's face!" Bold Macy answered then,-- "Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men." The priest came panting to the shore, His grave cocked hat was gone; Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn.
"Come back,--come back!" the parson cried, "The church's curse beware." "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "but Thy blessing prithee spare." "Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest, "Thou 'lt yet the gallows see." "Who's born to be hanged will not be drowned," Quoth Macy, merrily; "And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by!" He bent him to his oar, And the small boat glided quietly From the twain upon the shore.
Now in the west, the heavy clouds Scattered and fell asunder, While feebler came the rush of rain, And fainter growled the thunder.
And through the broken clouds, the sun Looked out serene and warm, Painting its holy symbol-light Upon the passing storm.
Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span, O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; One bright foot touched the eastern hills, And one with ocean blended.
By green Pentucket's southern'slope The small boat glided fast; The watchers of the Block-house saw The strangers as they passed.
That night a stalwart garrison Sat shaking in their shoes, To hear the dip of Indian oars, The glide of birch canoes.
The fisher-wives of Salisbury-- The men were all away-- Looked out to see the stranger oar Upon their waters play.
Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercock Peered o'er the pines before them.
Around the Black Rocks, on their left, The marsh lay broad and green; And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, Plum Island's hills were seen.
With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed; A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed.
The glory of the sunset heaven On land and water lay; On the steep hills of Agawam, On cape, and bluff, and bay.
They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, And Gloucester's harbor-bar; The watch-fire of the garrison Shone like a setting star.
How brightly broke the morning On Massachusetts Bay! Blue wave, and bright green island, Rejoicing in the day.
On passed the bark in safety Round isle and headland steep; No tempest broke above them, No fog-cloud veiled the deep.
Far round the bleak and stormy Cape The venturous Macy passed, And on Nantucket's naked isle Drew up his boat at last.
And how, in log-built cabin, They braved the rough sea-weather; And there, in peace and quietness, Went down life's vale together; How others drew around them, And how their fishing sped, Until to every wind of heaven Nantucket's sails were spread; How pale Want alternated With Plenty's golden smile; Behold, is it not written In the annals of the isle?
And yet that isle remaineth A refuge of the free, As when true-hearted Macy Beheld it from the sea.
Free as the winds that winnow Her shrubless hills of sand, Free as the waves that batter Along her yielding land.
Than hers, at duty's summons, No loftier spirit stirs, Nor falls o'er human suffering A readier tear then hers.
God bless the sea-beat island! And grant forevermore, That charity and freedom dwell As now upon her shore! 1841.
THE KNIGHT OF ST.

JOHN.
ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills The sun shall sink again, Farewell to life and all its ills, Farewell to cell and chain! These prison shades are dark and cold, But, darker far than they, The shadow of a sorrow old Is on my heart alway.
For since the day when Warkworth wood Closed o'er my steed, and I, An alien from my name and blood, A weed cast out to die,-- When, looking back in sunset light, I saw her turret gleam, And from its casement, far and white, Her sign of farewell stream, Like one who, from some desert shore, Doth home's green isles descry, And, vainly longing, gazes o'er The waste of wave and sky; So from the desert of my fate I gaze across the past; Forever on life's dial-plate The shade is backward cast! I've wandered wide from shore to shore, I've knelt at many a shrine; And bowed me to the rocky floor Where Bethlehem's tapers shine; And by the Holy Sepulchre I've pledged my knightly sword To Christ, His blessed Church, and her, The Mother of our Lord.
Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! How vain do all things seem! My soul is in the past, and life To-day is but a dream.
In vain the penance strange and long, And hard for flesh to bear; The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, And sackcloth shirt of hair.
The eyes of memory will not sleep, Its ears are open still; And vigils with the past they keep Against my feeble will.
And still the loves and joys of old Do evermore uprise; I see the flow of locks of gold, The shine of loving eyes! Ah me! upon another's breast Those golden locks recline; I see upon another rest The glance that once was mine.
"O faithless priest! O perjured knight!" I hear the Master cry; "Shut out the vision from thy sight, Let Earth and Nature die.
"The Church of God is now thy spouse, And thou the bridegroom art; Then let the burden of thy vows Crush down thy human heart!" In vain! This heart its grief must know, Till life itself hath ceased, And falls beneath the self-same blow The lover and the priest! O pitying Mother! souls of light, And saints and martyrs old! Pray for a weak and sinful knight, A suffering man uphold.
Then let the Paynim work his will, And death unbind my chain, Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill The sun shall fall again.
1843 CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK.
In 1658 two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Smithwick of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of nearly all his property for having entertained Quakers at his house, were fined for non-attendance at church.

They being unable to pay the fine, the General Court issued an order empowering "the Treasurer of the County to sell the said persons to any of the English nation of Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.
To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away; Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand- maid free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime.
Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold! Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking and the shame; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came: "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said, "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?
"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street?
Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?
"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra ?-Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.
"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.
"O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound, And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound,-- "Mad scoffers of the priesthood; who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.
"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!" Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.
Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt; When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.
Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.
At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.
And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak: "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt." Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky.
And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land.
And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.
I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak! Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!" Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns his child!" But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.
Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said,-- "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid?
In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"-- no voice, no sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,-- "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,-- I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,-- "Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me!--I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!" "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause.
"Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold ?" I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half- way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn; Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track.
Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll.
"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.
Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.
Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his hand- maid free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid! 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! 1843.
THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.
The following ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected with the famous General -- --, of Hampton, New Hampshire, who was regarded by his neighbors as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary.

I give the story, as I heard it when a child, from a venerable family visitant.
DARK the halls, and cold the feast, Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest.
All is over, all is done, Twain of yesterday are one! Blooming girl and manhood gray, Autumn in the arms of May! Hushed within and hushed without, Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout; Dies the bonfire on the hill; All is dark and all is still, Save the starlight, save the breeze Moaning through the graveyard trees, And the great sea-waves below, Pulse of the midnight beating slow.
From the brief dream of a bride She hath wakened, at his side.
With half-uttered shriek and start,-- Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm, And his breathing near and warm?
Lightly from the bridal bed Springs that fair dishevelled head, And a feeling, new, intense, Half of shame, half innocence, Maiden fear and wonder speaks Through her lips and changing cheeks.
From the oaken mantel glowing, Faintest light the lamp is throwing On the mirror's antique mould, High-backed chair, and wainscot old, And, through faded curtains stealing, His dark sleeping face revealing.
Listless lies the strong man there, Silver-streaked his careless hair; Lips of love have left no trace On that hard and haughty face; And that forehead's knitted thought Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.
"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state, He hath made me rich and great, And I bless him, though he be Hard and stern to all save me!" While she speaketh, falls the light O'er her fingers small and white; Gold and gem, and costly ring Back the timid lustre fling,-- Love's selectest gifts, and rare, His proud hand had fastened there.
Gratefully she marks the glow From those tapering lines of snow; Fondly o'er the sleeper bending His black hair with golden blending, In her soft and light caress, Cheek and lip together press.
Ha!--that start of horror! why That wild stare and wilder cry, Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low, "Spare me,--spare me,--let me go!" God have mercy!--icy cold Spectral hands her own enfold, Drawing silently from them Love's fair gifts of gold and gem.
"Waken! save me!" still as death At her side he slumbereth.
Ring and bracelet all are gone, And that ice-cold hand withdrawn; But she hears a murmur low, Full of sweetness, full of woe, Half a sigh and half a moan "Fear not! give the dead her own!" Ah!--the dead wife's voice she knows! That cold hand whose pressure froze, Once in warmest life had borne Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes Open with a dull surprise.
In his arms the strong man folds her, Closer to his breast he holds her; Trembling limbs his own are meeting, And he feels her heart's quick beating "Nay, my dearest, why this fear ?" "Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" "Nay, a dream,--an idle dream." But before the lamp's pale gleam Tremblingly her hand she raises.
There no more the diamond blazes, Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,-- "Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!" Broken words of cheer he saith, But his dark lip quivereth, And as o'er the past he thinketh, From his young wife's arms he shrinketh; Can those soft arms round him lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye?
She her fair young head can rest Soothed and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocence Draw new strength and courage thence; He, the proud man, feels within But the cowardice of sin! She can murmur in her thought Simple prayers her mother taught, And His blessed angels call, Whose great love is over all; He, alone, in prayerless pride, Meets the dark Past at her side! One, who living shrank with dread From his look, or word, or tread, Unto whom her early grave Was as freedom to the slave, Moves him at this midnight hour, With the dead's unconscious power! Ah, the dead, the unforgot! From their solemn homes of thought, Where the cypress shadows blend Darkly over foe and friend, Or in love or sad rebuke, Back upon the living look.
And the tenderest ones and weakest, Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, Lifting from those dark, still places, Sweet and sad-remembered faces, O'er the guilty hearts behind An unwitting triumph find.
1843 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK.
Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married a daughter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662.