Whittiers Complete Poems, vol 5 | Page 7

priestesses did hold to be the language of the gods. And a late writer,
she said, had something in one of his pieces, which might well be
spoken of the aged and dead tree-trunk, upon which we were sitting.
And when we did all desire to know their import, she repeated them
thus:--
"Sure thou didst flourish once, and many springs,
Many bright
mornings, much dew, many showers,
Passed o'er thy head; many
light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodged in thy living
towers."
"And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up,
and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies,

While the low violet thriveth at their root."
These lines, she said, were written by one Vaughn, a Brecknockshire
Welsh Doctor of Medicine, who had printed a little book not many
years ago. Mr. Richardson said the lines were good, but that he did hold
the reading of ballads and the conceits of rhymers a waste of time, to
say nothing worse. Sir Thomas hereat said that, as far as he could judge,
the worthy folk of New England had no great temptation to that sin
from their own poets, and did then, in a drolling tone, repeat some
verses of the 137th Psalm, which he said were the best he had seen in
the Cambridge Psalm Book:--
"The rivers of Babylon,
There when we did sit down,
Yea, even then we mourned when
We remembered Sion.

Our harp we did hang it amid
Upon the willow-tree;
Because there they that us away
Led to captivity!

Required of us a song, and thus
Asked mirth us waste who laid,

Sing us among a Sion's song
Unto us as then they said."
"Nay, Sir Thomas," quoth Mr. Richardson, "it is not seemly to jest over
the Word of God. The writers of our Book of Psalms in metre held
rightly, that God's altar needs no polishing; and truly they have
rendered the words of David into English verse with great fidelity."
Our young gentleman, not willing to displeasure a man so esteemed as
Mr. Richardson, here made an apology for his jesting, and said that, as
to the Cambridge version, it was indeed faithful; and that it was no
blame to uninspired men, that they did fall short of the beauties and
richness of the Lord's Psalmist. It being now near noon, we crossed
over the river, to where was a sweet spring of water, very clear and
bright, running out upon the green bank. Now, as we stood thirsty,
having no cup to drink from, seeing some people near, we called to
them, and presently there came running to us a young and modest
woman, with a bright pewter tankard, which she filled and gave us. I
thought her sweet and beautiful, as Rebecca of old, at her father's
fountain. She was about leaving, when Mr. Richardson said to her, it
was a foul shame for one like her to give heed to the ranting of the
Quakers, and bade her be a good girl, and come to the meeting.
"Nay," said she, "I have been there often, to small profit. The spirit