Anti-slavery bugle. [volume] (New-Lisbon, Ohio) 1845-1861, 1857-09-05
From tho National Era.
THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER.

From tho National Era.
THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER.
by JOHN q. WHITTIER.
1t was the pleasant harvest time,
When cellar.bins are closely slowed,
And garrets bend beneath their load,
And the old, swallow-hauntcd barns
Brown gabled, long, and full of seams
Through which the mooted sunlight streams,
And winds blow freshly in to shake
The red plumes of the roasted cocks,
And the loose hay.mow's scented locks
Are filed with summers ripened stores,
Its odorous grass and grained sheaves,
Flow their low scalfolds to their caves.
On Eek Uarden's oakcn floor,
With many an autumn thresbirg worn,
Lay the heaped ears of unhus ed 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 theii choice.
How pleasantly the rising moon,
Between the shadow Of the mows,
Looked ON them through the great elm boughs
On sturdy boyhood suu-embrownod,
On girlhood with Its solid curves
OF healthful strength and painless nerves !!
And icsts went round, and laughter made
The house.dog answer with his howl,
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl
And quaint old songs their fathers sung,
In Derby dalcs and Yorkshire moors.
Ere Norman William trod their shores;
And tales, whose merry license shook
The fat sides Of the Saxon thaue,
Forgetful Of the lowering Dane!
But still the sweetest voice was mute,
That river valley ever heard,
From lip Of maid or throat Of bird
For Mabel Martin sat apart,
And let the hay mow's shadows fall
Upon the ~lovliest face Of all.
She sat apart, as one forbid,
Who knew that none would condescend
To own the Witch's child a friend.
The seasons scarce had gone their round,
Since curious thousands thronged to see
Her mother on the gallows tree.
And Knocked the palsied limbs of age,
That f~altered on the fatal stairs,
And wan lip trembling with it's prayers!
Few questioned Of the sorrowing child,
Or, when they saw the mother die,
Dreamed of the daughters agony.
They went up to their homes that day,
AS men and Christians justified
God willed il, 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 affairs let us see
Thyself in Thy humanity
Poor Mabel from her mothers grave
Crept to her desolate bearth-stone,
And wrestled with her face alone;
With love, and anger, and despair,
The phantoms of disordered sense,
The awful doubts of Providence
The school boys jeered her as they passed,
And, when she sought the house of prayer,
Her mothers curse pursued her there.
And still DER many a neighboring door
She saw the horseshoes's curved charm.
To guard against her mothers harm
That mother, poor and sick and lame,
Who, Daily, by the old arm chair.
Folded her witheVed hands in prayer
Who turned, in Salem's dreary Jail,
Her worn old Bible Ger and Ger,
When her dim eyes could read no more.
Sore tried and panied, 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.
So in the shadow Mabel sits,
Untouched by mirth she secs and hears,
Her smile is sadder than her tears.
But cruel eyes have found her out,
And cruel lips repeat her name,
And taunt her with her mothers shame.
She answered not with railing words.
But drew her apron Ger her face,
And, sobbing, glided from the place.
And, only pausing at the door,
Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze
OF one who, in her better days,
Had been her warm and steady friend.