John Underhill

A score of years had come and gone     Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone,     When Captain Underhill, bearing scars     From Indian ambush and Flemish wars,     Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down,     East by north, to Cocheco town.     With Vane the younger, in counsel sweet,     He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet,     And, when the bolt of banishment fell     On the head of his saintly oracle,     He had shared her ill as her good report,     And braved the wrath of the General Court.     He shook from his feet as he rode away     The dust of the Massachusetts Bay.     The world might bless and the world might ban,     What did it matter the perfect man,     To whom the freedom of earth was given,     Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?     He cheered his heart as he rode along     With screed of Scripture and holy song,     Or thought how he rode with his lances free     By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee,     Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road,     And Hilton Point in the distance showed.     He saw the church with the block-house nigh,     The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby,     And, tacking to windward, low and crank,     The little shallop from Strawberry Bank;     And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad     Over land and water, and praised the Lord.     Goodly and stately and grave to see,     Into the clearing's space rode he,     With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath,     And his silver buckles and spurs beneath,     And the settlers welcomed him, one and all,     From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.     And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come     As the way seemed open to seek a home.     Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands     In the Narragansett and Netherlands,     And if here ye have work for a Christian man,     I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.     "I boast not of gifts, but fain would own     The wonderful favor God hath shown,     The special mercy vouchsafed one day     On the shore of Narragansett Bay,     As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside,     And mused like Isaac at eventide.     "A sudden sweetness of peace I found,     A garment of gladness wrapped me round;     I felt from the law of works released,     The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased,     My faith to a full assurance grew,     And all I had hoped for myself I knew.     "Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way,     I shall not stumble, I shall not stray;     He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress,     I wear the robe of His righteousness;     And the shafts of Satan no more avail     Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."     "Tarry with us," the settlers cried,     "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide."     And Captain Underhill bowed his head.     "The will of the Lord be done!" he said.     And the morrow beheld him sitting down     In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.     And he judged therein as a just man should;     His words were wise and his rule was good;     He coveted not his neighbor's land,     From the holding of bribes he shook his hand;     And through the camps of the heathen ran     A wholesome fear of the valiant man.     But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith,     And life hath ever a savor of death.     Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls,     And whoso thinketh he standeth falls.     Alas! ere their round the seasons ran,     There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.     The tempter's arrows that rarely fail     Had found the joints of his spiritual mail;     And men took note of his gloomy air,     The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer,     The signs of a battle lost within,     The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.     Then a whisper of scandal linked his name     With broken vows and a life of blame;     And the people looked askance on him     As he walked among them sullen and grim,     Ill at ease, and bitter of word,     And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.     None knew how, with prayer and fasting still,     He strove in the bonds of his evil will;     But he shook himself like Samson at length,     And girded anew his loins of strength,     And bade the crier go up and down     And call together the wondering town.     Jeer and murmur and shaking of head     Ceased as he rose in his place and said     "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know     How I came among you a year ago,     Strong in the faith that my soul was freed     From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.     "I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame,     But not with a lie on my lips I came.     In my blindness I verily thought my heart     Swept and garnished in every part.     He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees     The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?     "I urge no plea. At your feet I lay     The trust you gave me, and go my way.     Hate me or pity me, as you will,     The Lord will have mercy on sinners still;     And I, who am chiefest, say to all,     Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."     No voice made answer: a sob so low     That only his quickened ear could know     Smote his heart with a bitter pain,     As into the forest he rode again,     And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down     On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.     Crystal-clear on the man of sin     The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in;     On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew,     The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew,     And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise     Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.     Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze     Sang in their saddest of minor keys?     What was it the mournful wood-thrush said?     What whispered the pine-trees overhead?     Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way     That Adam heard in the cool of day?     Into the desert alone rode he,     Alone with the Infinite Purity;     And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke,     As Peter did to the Master's look,     He measured his path with prayers of pain     For peace with God and nature again.     And in after years to Cocheco came     The bruit of a once familiar name;     How among the Dutch of New Netherlands,     From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands,     A penitent soldier preached the Word,     And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!     And the heart of Boston was glad to hear     How he harried the foe on the long frontier,     And heaped on the land against him barred     The coals of his generous watch and ward.     Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still     Counts with her worthies John Underhill