The Witch of Wenham

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 Andrew’s soul

The Wenham witch has caught;

She holds him with the curlëd 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 Hebrew’s 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 men’s eyes to her.

“The mole upon her dimpled chin

Is Satan’s 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 Man’s 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 eyes

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 loves

Oppose His righteous will.

“Between Him and the powers 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 as he drew nigh;

The children in the dooryards 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 girl’s 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 mother’s wedding gown,

When lo! the marshal, writ in hand,

From Alford hill rode down.

His face was hard with cruel fear,

He grasped the maiden’s 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 daughter’s sake.”

“I ’ll keep my daughter safe,” he said,

“From the witch of Wenham Lake.”

“Oh, leave me for my mother’s sake,

She needs my eyes to see.”

“Those eyes, young witch, the crows 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 and down the chimney stack

The swallows moaned and stirred.

And o’er 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 lover’s 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 from 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 urged 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 year’s 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.