The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

---

[160] 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! “