John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary PoemsThe Witch of Wenham
Blew warm the winds of May,
And over Naumkeag’s ancient oaks
The green outgrew the gray.
The early birds at will
Waked up the violet in its dell,
The wind-flower on its hill.
Son Andrew, tell me, pray.”
“For stripëd perch in Wenham Lake
I go to fish to-day.”
The mottled perch shall be:
A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank
And weaves her net for thee.
Her spell-song low and faint;
The wickedest witch in Salem jail
Is to that girl a saint.”
God knows,” the young man cried,
“He never made a whiter soul
Than hers by Wenham side.
And every want supplies;
To her above the blessed Book
She lends her soft blue eyes.
Her lips are sweet with prayer;
Go where you will, in ten miles round
Is none more good and fair.”
And of thy mother, stay!”
She clasped her hands, she wept aloud,
But Andrew rode away.
The Wenham witch has caught;
She holds him with the curlëd gold
Whereof her snare is wrought.
She binds him with her hair;
Oh, break the spell with holy words,
Unbind him with a prayer!”
“This mischief shall not be;
The witch shall perish in her sins
And Andrew shall go free.
She saw her weave a spell,
Bare-armed, loose-haired, at full of moon,
Around a dried-up well.
The Hebrew’s old refrain
(For Satan uses Bible words),
Till water flowed amain.
By Wenham water words
That made the buttercups take wings
And turn to yellow birds.
The hive at her command;
And fishes swim to take their food
From out her dainty hand.
The godly minister
Notes well the spell that doth compel
The young men’s eyes to her.
Is Satan’s seal and sign;
Her lips are red with evil bread
And stain of unblest wine.
At Quasycung she took
The Black Man’s godless sacrament
And signed his dreadful book.
Against the young witch cried.
To take her Marshal Herrick rides
Even now to Wenham side.”
His daughter at his knee;
“I go to fetch that arrant witch,
Thy fair playmate,” quoth he.
And haunts both hall and stair;
They know her by the great blue eyes
And floating gold of hair.”
No foul old witch is she,
But sweet and good and crystal-pure
As Wenham waters be.”
Before us good and ill,
And woe to all whose carnal loves
Oppose His righteous will.
Choose thou, my child, to-day:
No sparing hand, no pitying eye,
When God commands to slay!”
With fear as he drew nigh;
The children in the dooryards held
Their breath as he passed by.
The grim witch-hunter rode
The pale Apocalyptic beast
By grisly Death bestrode.
Upon the young girl’s shone,
Her tender mouth, her dreaming eyes,
Her yellow hair outblown.
To natural harmonies,
The singing birds, the whispering wind,
She sat beneath the trees.
Her mother’s wedding gown,
When lo! the marshal, writ in hand,
From Alford hill rode down.
He grasped the maiden’s hands:
“Come with me unto Salem town,
For so the law commands!”
Farewell before I go!”
He closer tied her little hands
Unto his saddle bow.
“For thy sweet daughter’s sake.”
“I ’ll keep my daughter safe,” he said,
“From the witch of Wenham Lake.”
She needs my eyes to see.”
“Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck
From off the gallows-tree.”
And up its stairway long,
And closed on her the garret-door
With iron bolted strong.
Her evening prayer she said,
While, through the dark, strange faces seemed
To mock her as she prayed.
The fears her childhood knew;
The awe wherewith the air was filled
With every breath she drew.
Some secret thought or sin
Had shut good angels from her heart
And let the bad ones in?
Let go her hold on Heaven,
And sold herself unwittingly
To spirits unforgiven?
No human sound she heard,
But up and down the chimney stack
The swallows moaned and stirred.
Of evil sight and sound,
The blind bats on their leathern wings
Went wheeling round and round.
Looked in a half-faced moon.
Was it a dream, or did she hear
Her lover’s whistled tune?
A whisper reached her ear:
“Slide down the roof to me,” it said,
“So softly none may hear.”
Till from its eaves she hung,
And felt the loosened shingles yield
To which her fingers clung.
And touched her feet so small;
“Drop down to me, dear heart,” he said,
“My arms shall break the fall.”
Her arms about him twined;
And, noiseless as if velvet-shod,
They left the house behind.
Full free the rein he cast;
Oh, never through the mirk midnight
Rode man and maid more fast.
The bridgeless streams they swam;
At set of moon they passed the Bass,
At sunrise Agawam.
The ancient ferryman
Forgot, at times, his idle oars,
So fair a freight to scan.
He saw them mount and ride,
“God keep her from the evil eye,
And harm of witch!” he cried.
At all its fears gone by;
“He does not know,” she whispered low,
“A little witch am I.”
And, in the red sundown,
Drew rein before a friendly door
In distant Berwick town.
The Quaker people felt;
And safe beside their kindly hearths
The hunted maiden dwelt,
The haunting horror threw,
And hatred, born of ghastly dreams,
To shame and pity grew.
Its golden summer day,
But blithe and glad its withered fields,
And skies of ashen gray;
The spectres ceased to roam,
And scattered households knelt again
Around the hearths of home.
The meadow-lark outsang,
And once again on all the hills
The early violets sprang,
Lay green within the arms
Of creeks that bore the salted sea
To pleasant inland farms,
The jail-bolts backward fell;
And youth and hoary age came forth
Like souls escaped from hell.