Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Suffolk Miracle
By AnonymousA
Than what I now shall treat upon.
In Suffolk there did lately dwell
A farmer rich and known full well.
On whom he placed his chief delight;
Her beauty was beyond compare,
She was both virtuous and fair.
Who was so charméd with her eye,
That he could never be at rest;
He was by love so much possest.
Did grant him love immediately;
But when her father came to hear,
He parted her and her poor dear.
Unto his brother’s, with intent
That she should there so long remain,
Till she had changed her mind again.
But knew not how to be relieved;
He sighed and sobbed continually
That his true-love he could not see.
Who was her heart’s espouséd friend;
He sighed, he grieved, but all in vain,
For she confined must still remain.
Could give no ease unto his heart,
Who was so strangely terrified
That in short time for love he died.
Knew nothing of his dying day,
But constant still she did remain,
And loved the dead, although in vain.
A month or more, unto this maid
He came in middle of the night,
Who joyed to see her heart’s delight.
Her mother’s hood and safeguard too,
He brought with him to testify
Her parents’ order he came by.
He hoped it would be for her good,
And gave consent to her straightway,
That with him she should come away.
They passed as swift as any wind,
That in two hours or little more,
He brought her to her father’s door.
He did complain his head did ake;
Her handkerchief she then took out,
And tied the same his head about.
“Thou art as cold as any clay;
When we come home a fire we ’ll have”;
But little dreamed he went to grave.
And after she ne’er saw him more;
“I ’ll set the horse up,” then he said,
And there he left this harmless maid.
“Who ’s there?” “’T is I,” she then replied;
Who wondered much her voice to hear,
And was possessed with dread and fear.
He stared like an affrighted man:
Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,
Cried out, “My child, how cam’st thou here?”
By such a messenger?” said she;
Which made his hair stare on his head,
As knowing well that he was dead.
“He ’s in the stable,” quoth the maid.
“Go in,” said he, “and go to bed;
“I ’ll see the horse well litteréd.”
No shape of any mankind see,
But found his horse all on a sweat;
Which made him in a deadly fret.
Nor none else (though full well they knew
That he was dead a month before),
For fear of grieving her full sore.
Of the deceased, with full intent
To tell him what his daughter said;
So both came back unto this maid.
’T was he that then brought her away;
Which when they heard they were amazed,
And on each other strangely gazed.
About his head, and that they tried;
The sexton they did speak unto,
That he the grave would then undo.
His body turning into mould,
And though he had a month been dead,
This handkerchief was about his head.
And the whole truth they did unfold;
She was thereat so terrified
And grievéd, that she quickly died.
But, if they be right honest men
Your daughters love, give them their way,
For force oft breeds their lives’ decay.