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Cassandra Southwick
by [?]

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
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

“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
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

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
Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful
Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the
saints of old,
When of the Lord’s good angel the rescued Peter

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