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 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.
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