"Canst hear,” said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

1

They hear no sound; the swell is strong;

Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
“O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear,

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

22

THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER 1

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

It was the pleasant harvest time,
When cellar-bins are closely stowed,

And garrets bend beneath their load,

1. "The only foundation for this charming ballad is the fact that Goody Martin, who lived at the place so graphically described by the poet, was hanged as a witch, during the prevalence of the dreadful delusion, being the only woman who suffered death on a charge of witchcraft on the north side of the Merrimac."-Pickard, Life and Letters of Whittier.

And the old swallow-haunted barns—
Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams
Through which the moted 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 shadows 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 2 trod their shores;

And tales, whose merry license shook
The fat sides of the Saxon thane,3
Forgetful of the hovering 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 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 on the gallows-tree;

And mocked the palsied limbs of age,
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.

2. Norman William. William of Normandy conquered England at the battle of Hastings in 1066.

3. Saxon thane. Saxon lord. The Saxons held England previous to the Norman Conquest, but their power was frequently threatened by the Danes.

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!

Poor 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!

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 curvéd 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.

So in the shadow Mabel sits;

Untouched by mirth she sees 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 mother's shame.

She answered not with railing words,
But drew her apron o'er 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,
Ere yet her mother's doom had made
Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears,
And, starting, with an angry frown

Hushed all the wicked murmurs down.