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 She saw the white spire through the trees,
She heard the sweet hymn swelling:
O pitying Christ! a refuge give
That poor one in Thy dwelling!
Like a scared fawn before the hounds,
Right up the aisle she glided,
While close behind her, whip in hand,
A lank-haired hunter strided.
She raised a keen and bitter cry,
To Heaven and Earth appealing;
Were manhood's generous pulses dead?
Had woman's heart no feeling?
A score of stout hands rose between
The hunter and the flying:
Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes
Flashed tearful, yet defying.
‘Who dares profane this house and day?’
Cried out the angry pastor.
“Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave,
And I'm her lord and master!
I've law and gospel on my side,
And who shall dare refuse me? “
Down came the parson, bowing low,
” My good sir, pray excuse me!
Of course I know your right divine
To own and work and whip her;
Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott
Before the wench, and trip her! “
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