Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/284

252  Now the weariest of all mothers,
 * The saddest two years’ bride,

She scowls ill the face of her husband,
 * And spurns her child aside.

“Rake out the red coals, goodman,—
 * For there the child shall lie,

Till the black witch comes to fetch her
 * And both up chimney fly.

“It’s never my own little daughter,
 * It’s never my own,” she said;

“The witches have stolen my Anna,
 * And left me an imp instead.

“Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,
 * Blue eyes, and hair of gold;

But this is ugly and wrinkled,
 * Cross, and cunning, and old.

“I hate the touch of her fingers,
 * I hate the feel of her skin;

It’s not the milk from my bosom,
 * But my blood, that she sucks in.

“My face grows sharp with the torment;
 * Look! my arms are skin and bone!

Rake open the red coals, goodman,
 * And the witch shall have her own.

“She ’ll come when she hears it crying,
 * In the shape of an owl or bat,

And she ’ll bring us our darling Anna
 * In place of her screeching brat.”

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,
 * Laid his hand upon her head:

“Thy sorrow is great, O woman!
 * I sorrow with thee,” he said.

“The paths to trouble are many,
 * And never but one sure way

Leads out to the light beyond it:
 * My poor wife, let us pray.”

Then he said to the great All-Father,
 * “Thy daughter is weak and blind;

Let her sight come back, and clothe her
 * Once more in her right mind.

“Lead her out of this evil shadow,
 * Out of these fancies wild;

Let the holy love of the mother
 * Turn again to her child.

“Make her lips like the lips of Mary
 * Kissing her blessed Son;

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,
 * Rest on her little one.

“Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,
 * Open her prison-door,

And thine shall be all the glory
 * And praise forevermore.”

Then into the face of its mother
 * The baby looked up and smiled;

And the cloud of her soul was lifted,
 * And she knew her little child.

A beam of the slant west sunshine
 * Made the wan face almost fair,

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder
 * And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kissed it on lip and forehead,
 * She kissed it on cheek and chin,

And she bared her snow-white bosom
 * To the lips so pale and thin.

Oh, fair on her bridal morning
 * Was the maid who blushed and smiled,

But fairer to Ezra Dalton
 * Looked the mother of his child.

With more than a lover’s fondness
 * He stooped to her worn young face,

And the nursing child and the mother
 * He folded in one embrace.

“Blessed be God!” he murmured.
 * “Blessed be God!” she said;

“For I see, who once was blinded,—
 * I live, who once was dead.

“Now mount and ride, my goodman,
 * As thou lovest thy own soul!

Woe ’s me, if my wicked fancies
 * Be the death of Goody Cole!”

His horse he saddled and bridled,
 * And into the night rode he,

Now through the great black woodland,
 * Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings,
 * He came to the ferry wide,

And thrice he called to the boatman
 * Asleep on the other side.