The Witch of Wenham by John Greenleaf Whittier Along Crane Rivers sunny slopes Blew warm the winds of May, And over Naumkeags ancient oaks The green outgrew the gray. The grass was green at Rial-side, The early birds at will Waked up the violet in its dell, The wind-flower on its hill. Where go you, in your Sunday coat, Son Andrew, tell me, pray. For strip-ed perch in Wenham Lake I go to fish today. Unharmed of thee in Wenham Lake The mottled perch shall be: A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank And weaves her net for thee. She weaves her golden hair; she sings Her spell-song low and faint; The wickedest witch in Salem jail Is to that girl a saint. Nay mother, hold thy cruel tongue; God knows, the young man cried, He never made a whiter soul Than hers by Wenham side. She tends her mother sick and blind, And every want supplies; To her above the blessed Book She lends her soft blue eyes. Her voice is glad with holy songs, Her lips are sweet with prayer; Go where you will, in ten miles round Is none more good and fair. Son Andrew, for the love of God And of thy mother, stay! She clasped her hands, she wept aloud, But Andrew rode away. O reverend sir, my Andrews soul The Wenham witch has caught- She holds him with the curled gold Whereof her snare is wrought. She charms him with her great blue eyes She binds him with her hair--- Oh, break the spell with holy words, Unbind him with a prayer! Take heart, the painful preacher said This mischief shall not be; The witch shall perish in her sins And Andrew shall go free. Our poor Ann Putnam testifies She saw her weave a spell, Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon Around a dried-up well. Spring up, O well! she softly sang The Hebrews old refrain (For Satan uses Bible words) Till water flowed amain. And many a goodwife heard her speak By Wenham water words That made the buttercups take wings And turn to yellow birds. They say that swarming wild bees seek The hive at her command- And fishes swim to take their food From out her dainty hand. Meek as she sits in meeting-time, The godly minister Notes well the spell that doth compel The young mens eyes to her. The mole upon her dimpled chin Is Satans seal and sign; Her lips are red with evil bread And stain of unblest wine. For Tituba, my Indian, saith At Quasycung she took The Black Mans godless sacrament And signed his dreadful book. Last night my sore-afflicted child Against the young witch cried. To take her Marshal Herrick rides Even now to Wenham side. The marshal in his saddle sat, His daughter at his knee; I go to fetch that arrant witch Thy fair playmate, quoth he. Her spectre walks the parsonage, And haunts both hall and stair; They know her by the great blue eye And floating gold of hair. They lie, they lie, my father dear! No foul old witch is she, But sweet and good and crystal-pure As Wenham waters be. I tell thee, child, the Lord hath set Before us good and ill And woe to all whose carnal love Oppose His righteous will. Between Him and the power of hell Choose thou, my child, to-day: No sparing hand, no pitying eye When God commands to slay! He went his way; the old wives shook With fear a he drew nigh; The children in the dooryard held Their breath as he passed by. Too well they knew the gaunt gray horse The grim witch-hunter rode, The pale Apocalyptic beast By grisly Death bestrode. Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake Upon the young girls shone, Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes Her yellow hair outblown. By happy youth and love attuned To natural harmonies, The singing birds, the whispering wind She sat beneath the trees. Sat shaping for her bridal dress Her mothers wedding gown When lo! the marshal, writ in hand, From Alford hill rode down. His face was hard with cruel fear, He grasped the maidens hands: Come with me unto Salem town For so the law commands! Oh, let me to my mother say Farewell before I go! He closer tied her little hands Unto his saddle bow. Unhand me, cried she piteously, For thy sweet daughters sake. Ill keep my daughter safe, he said, From the witch of Wenham Lake. Oh, leave me for my mothers sake She needs my eyes to see. Those eyes, young witch, the crow shall peck From off the gallows-tree. He bore her to a farm-house old And up its stairway long And closed on her the garret-door With iron bolted strong. The day died out, the night came down: Her evening prayer she said While, through the dark, strange faces seemed To mock her as she prayed. The present horror deepened all The fears her childhood knew; The awe wherewith the air was filled With every breath she drew. And could it be, she trembling asked Some secret thought or sin Had shut good angels from her heart And let the bad ones in? Had she in some forgotten dream Let go her hold on Heaven, And sold herself unwittingly To spirits unforgiven? Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed; No human sound she heard, But up snd down the chimney stack The swallows moaned and stirred. And oer her, with a dread surmise Of evil sight and sound, The blind bats on their leathern wings Went wheeling round and round. Low hanging in the midnight sky Looked in a half-faced moon. Was it a dream, or did she hear Her lovers whistled tune? She forced the oaken scuttle back; A whisper reached her ear: Slide down the roof to me, it said, So softly none may hear. She slid along the sloping roof Till from its eaves she hung And felt the loosened shingles yield To which her fingers clung. Below, her lover stretched his hands And touched her feet so small; Drop down to me, dear heart, he said, My arms shall break the fall. He set her on his pillion soft Her arms about him twined; And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, They left the house behind. But when they reached the open way Full free the rein he cast Oh, never through the mirk midnight Rode man and maid more fast. Along the wild wood-paths they sped The bridgeless streams they swam, At set of moon they passed the Bass, At sunrise Agawam. At high noon on the Merrimac The ancient ferryman Forgot, at times, his idle oars So fair a freight to scan. And when irom off his grounded boat He saw them mount and ride God keep her from the evil eye And harm of witch! he cried. The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh At all its fears gone by; He does not know, she whispered low, A little witch am I. All day he uged his weary horse And, in the red sundown Drew rein before a friendly door In distant Berwick town. A fellow-feeling for the wronged The Quaker people felt, And safe beside their kindly hearths The hunted maiden dwelt, Until from off its breast the land The haunting horror threw, And hatred, born of ghastly dreams, To shame and pity grew. Sad were the years spring morns, and sad Its golden summer day, But blithe and glad its withered fields And skies of ashen gray; For spell and charm had power no more, The spectres ceased to roam And scattered households knelt again Around the hearths of home. And when once more by Beaver Dam The meadow-lark outsang And once again on all the hills The early violets sprang, And all the windy pasture slopes Lay green within the arms Of creeks that bore the salted sea To pleasant inland farms, The smith filed off the chains he forged, The jail-bolts backward fell And youth and hoary age came forth Like souls escaped from hell.
Posted on: Wed, 23 Oct 2013 17:30:46 +0000