A Reed by the River/The Witch

by Virginia Woodward Cloud

LONGER POEMS

THE WITCH (Salem, 1692.)

And was it I, long, long ago, who sate within the door and spun?
I mind the hazel boughs ablow waved yellow in the setting sun,
And my blind mother's voice within, "Come, daughter, set aside thy wheel,
Methinks the darkness doth begin, or muttering of storm I feel.

'Twould seem the Bird of Fear somewhere, doth spread its wings upon the skies."
"A thrush, my mother, sings in air, and to our elm the swallow flies,"
'Twas thus I spake to her,—alack!—while reaching straight unto our sill,
The shadows of three crosses black stretched down from Gallows Hill.

"Daughter, I hear the tramp of feet that draw them slowly, strangely nigh"—
"The wind, my mother, stirs the wheat, and yonder mill-stream rusheth high,"
'Twas thus, ay, it was thus, I spake, whilst harkening a far-off sound
Like to a mighty wave that brake, and beat upon the ground.

Nearer, and still more near it drew, a darkly threatening, muttering throng,
Louder the direful purpose grew, which swept their steps along,—
"The Witch! The Witch! Let her come hence! . . . Accuse her ye who will!"
"Yon cross's shadow marks her whence it falls from Gallows Hill!"

Yet, at the sill my wheel it turned, my fingers flew and spun apace,
But from the West the sunset burned above a watching face.
"Daughter, thy wheel I harken well; methinks 'twere time thy task was o'er,--
Alack, mine ears cannot foretell whose steps approach the door!"

"Mother, our neighbors halt and pass, I bid them all a right good-day."
"Nay other feet are on the grass, and storm is threatening far away."
Outside that door they gathered round,--it were full strange a sight, I ween!
--The murmuring of gloomy sound, the rope they bare between,--

And one stepped forth with lifted hand, and held. a written paper high,
Pointing to where that cross did stand against a darkening sky.
Then twirled my wheel, and singing I did close the door, the latch let fall,
And past the hazel waving high, went forth to face them all.

The aspect stern, the bitter will,-their menace yet ofttimes I see,—
And twixt us, from the darkening hill, shadows of crosses three,
And in mine ears, as far away, where dusk crept gentler, softlier dim,
My mother's voice, at close of day, crooning her evening hymn.

Then spake the first, full harsh and stern; "The Council hath adjudged it right.
That ere yon sun to rest shall turn, and ere another night,
That ere again disaster dire shall terror spread by land or sea.
From evil spell, by rope or fire, our soil shall be free!"

"Good sirs!" quoth I, "'twere right and well, if sin or mischief have been done,
But they who in this cottage dwell, have taken and have asked of none;
My mother, she is blind and old, of gentle will, and kindly deeds,
Her draught of herbs that asks not gold, is balm for many needs.

Well versed in wind and tide is she, as the good sailor-folk maintain.
And woe unto the boat at sea, which she hath bade. remain!"
"Enough!—The maiden hath confessed!" "To death with evil!" "Triumph right!"
Now God have mercy for the thing that smote my brain and sight!

The coiling rope! . . . The cross of black! . . Upon my soul they brake them plain,
One bearing faggots in their track. . . . The angry cries that rose again. . . .
"The Witch! . . . The Witch! . . . She dwelleth here!" "The Woman with the Evil Eye!"
"No more unrighteous power we'll fear! "Now bring her forth and let her die!" . . .

"What mean ye men?—No witch is here! What came ye hitherward to find?
None save my mother, threescore year, a woman old and blind
Is 'neath yon roof!—If on her name some idle tongue hath cast a slur,
Let him come forth, and to his shame learn of the fair deeds done by her!"

"Silence!" spake one, "No more shall we be wrought upon by evil might!
On yonder hill shall judgment be before another night!"
"She did predict the storm which wrought disaster sore on land and sea!"
"Her hazel is with magic fraught!" "To death with such as she!"

"Away! Ye know not what ye do! It is my mother sits within!
Stricken and old,—now whence come you to reckon where there is no sin?
Ay, blind is she, yet knoweth well of weather and of tide, indeed,
And to the sailor-folk can tell when they should stay or speed!"

'Twas thus I cried in terror sore. Two stepped them forth and drew anigh
Bearing a rope. They muttered o'er, "Perish the Evil Eye!"
Back to the threshold straight I sprang, mine arms thrown out across that door,
Within, my mother softly sang a homely tune of yore.

The hazel rods were torn aside, and hands unpitying fell on mine,
"Now God above!" I madly cried, "A sign! send down a sign!"
And if the woe of one maid's cry pierced to high Heaven, 'tis God who knows!
A crash of thunder smote the sky, and lo, a mighty storm arose,

Furious and frenzied, lashed and tore the smitten branches to the ground,
The faces turned unto that door grew ashen at the awful sound,
A writhing tongue of livid flame, a cry that rent the fiery cloud,
A roar, a mighty crash there came, then darkness in a smoking shroud.

And lo, my mother at my side. . . . "My child, if any wander near
Bid them within, from wind and tide, we have no cause to fear.
For One alone the sky enfolds, and One alone the sea and land,
The fury of the storm He holds within the hollow of His hand!" . . .

··········

'Mid silence strange the rain beat down, strangely the darkness broke away,
And rolled from off the hilltop's crown, pierced by the sun's last ray,
And lo, across that door was cast, with mighty arms flung out to save,
The elm tree smitten by the blast, routed from out its grave.

And they whose purpose had been set to a fell deed, a work of woe,
(Ay, in my dreams I see them yet, when the wild wind doth blow!)
Forth from that place in mortal dread as though Death hunted in their track,
The dark, accusing throng had fled, nor stayed to look them back.

··········

And was it I, long, long ago, who to the dawn did set my face?
I mind the hazel buds ablow, made sweet the storm-spent place,
I mind my mother's gentle hand full trustingly in mine held fast,
Nor knew she,—save of storm-wrecked land,—that thing which now is past;

Nor how when at early day, I urged her steps with eager will,
Fragments of crosses strewed our way, washed down from Gallows Hill;
Naught save that troublous times and sore drove us from there afar to dwell,
Nor as the years passed gently o'er, knew she of what befell,—
Nay, nor at last, when peacefully, her blind eyes closed, her hand sought mine,
Knew she of that dark eve gone by, when God in mercy sent a sign.