Narrative Poems, part 4, Mable Martin etc | Page 2

folk remain
Who bear the pleasant name of Friends,
And keep their fathers' gentle
ways
And simple speech of Bible days;
In whose neat homesteads woman holds
With modest ease her equal
place,
And wears upon her tranquil face
The look of one who, merging not
Her self-hood in another's will,

Is love's and duty's handmaid still.
Pass with me down the path that winds
Through birches to the open
land,
Where, close upon the river strand
You mark a cellar, vine o'errun,
Above whose wall of loosened stones

The sumach lifts its reddening cones,

And the black nightshade's berries shine,
And broad, unsightly
burdocks fold
The household ruin, century-old.
Here, in the dim colonial time
Of sterner lives and gloomier faith,
A
woman lived, tradition saith,
Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy,
And witched and plagued the
country-side,
Till at the hangman's hand she died.
Sit with me while the westering day
Falls slantwise down the quiet
vale,
And, haply ere yon loitering sail,
That rounds the upper headland, falls
Below Deer Island's pines, or
sees
Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees
Rise black against the sinking sun,
My idyl of its days of old,
The
valley's legend, shall be told.
II. THE HUSKING.
It was the pleasant harvest-time,
When
cellar-bins are closely stowed,
And garrets bend beneath their load,
And the old swallow-haunted barns,--
Brown-gabled, long, and full
of seams
Through which the rooted sunlight streams,
And winds blow freshly in, to shake
The red plumes of the roosted
cocks,
And the loose hay-mow's scented locks,
Are filled with summer's ripened stores,
Its odorous grass and barley
sheaves,
From their low scaffolds to their eaves.
On Esek Harden's oaken floor,
With many an autumn threshing worn,

Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.
And thither came young men and maids,
Beneath a moon that, large
and low,
Lit that sweet eve of long ago.

They took their places; some by chance,
And others by a merry voice

Or sweet smile guided to their choice.
How pleasantly the rising moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,

Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!
On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned,
On girlhood with its solid
curves
Of healthful strength and painless nerves!
And jests went round, and laughs that made
The house-dog answer
with his howl,
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl;
And quaint old songs their fathers sung
In Derby dales and Yorkshire
moors,
Ere Norman William trod their shores;
And tales, whose merry license shook
The fat sides of the Saxon
thane,
Forgetful of the hovering Dane,--
Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known,
The charms and riddles that
beguiled
On Oxus' banks the young world's child,--
That primal picture-speech wherein
Have youth and maid the story
told,
So new in each, so dateless old,
Recalling pastoral Ruth in her
Who waited, blushing and demure,

The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture.
But still the sweetest voice was mute
That river-valley ever heard

From lips of maid or throat of bird;
For Mabel Martin sat apart,
And let the hay-mow's shadow fall

Upon the loveliest face of all.
She sat apart, as one forbid,
Who knew that none would condescend

To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.

The seasons scarce had gone their round,
Since curious thousands
thronged to see
Her mother at the gallows-tree;
And mocked the prison-palsied limbs
That faltered on the fatal stairs,

And wan lip trembling with its prayers!
Few questioned of the sorrowing child,
Or, when they saw the mother
die;
Dreamed of the daughter's agony.
They went up to their homes that day,
As men and Christians justified

God willed it, and the wretch had died!
Dear God and Father of us all,
Forgive our faith in cruel lies,--

Forgive the blindness that denies!
Forgive thy creature when he takes,
For the all-perfect love Thou art,

Some grim creation of his heart.
Cast down our idols, overturn
Our bloody altars; let us see
Thyself
in Thy humanity!
Young Mabel from her mother's grave
Crept to her desolate
hearth-stone,
And wrestled with her fate alone;
With love, and anger, and despair,
The phantoms of disordered sense,

The awful doubts of Providence!
Oh, dreary broke the winter days,
And dreary fell the winter nights

When, one by one, the neighboring lights
Went out, and human sounds grew still,
And all the phantom-peopled
dark
Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark.
And summer days were sad and long,
And sad the uncompanioned
eves,
And sadder sunset-tinted leaves,

And Indian Summer's airs of balm;
She scarcely felt the soft caress,

The beauty died of loneliness!
The school-boys jeered her as they passed,
And, when she sought the
house of prayer,
Her mother's curse pursued her there.
And still o'er many a neighboring door
She saw the horseshoe's
curved charm,
To guard against her mother's harm!
That mother, poor and sick and lame,
Who daily, by the old arm-chair,

Folded her withered hands in prayer;--
Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail,
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er,

When her dim eyes could read no more!
Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept
Her faith, and trusted that her
way,
So dark, would somewhere meet the day.
And still her weary wheel went round
Day after day, with no relief

Small leisure have the poor for grief.
IV. THE CHAMPION.
So in the shadow Mabel sits;
Untouched
by mirth she sees and hears,
Her smile