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 “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;
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