HALLOWEEN TALES: "THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD" PT2

((First posted in October 2014))


My distant cousin Jonathan Moulton's first wife was Ann Smith who he married
in 1749 and with whom he had a family of eleven children. She died of smallpox
in 1775. He married  Sarah Emery in 1776, and their marriage resulted in four
more children. She is the "new wife" in a poem written by my 4th cousin 6x
removed John Greenleaf Whittier.   It's probable that Whittier may have met
one or more of Moulton's adult children, but as the foreword to the poem
indicates, he certainly was familiar with the legends that had sprung up
about Jonathan Moulton

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

[the following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected
with the famous Gen. M., of Hampton, N. H., who was regarded by his neighbors
as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when
a child, from a venerable family visitant.]

Dark the halls, and cold the feast—
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest!
All is over — all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood grey,
Autumn in the arms of May!

Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the grave-yard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Like the night's pulse, beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half uttered shriek and start —
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?

Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling —
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha !— that start of horror !— Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low:
"Spare me — spare me — let me go!"

God have mercy !— Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
"Fear not! give the dead her own!"

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows !
That cold hand whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream — an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
 Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, —
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and child-like on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread,
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.
pp117-120

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems Benjamin B. Mussey , Pub. Boston, Ma. 1850

"THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH" BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I wanted to post a poem on my geneablog for National Poetry Month, one that I could use for the Genealogy Poetry Challenge later this year. So I looked and found one by cousin John Greenleaf Whittier again, this one about a legendary witch and a shipwreck at Hampton NH where my ancestor Abraham Perkins had lived. I found it on the Bartleby.com website:


New England: Hampton, N. H.
The Wreck of Rivermouth
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)


RIVERMOUTH Rocks are fair to see,   
  By dawn or sunset shone across,   
When the ebb of the sea has left them free,   
  To dry their fringes of gold-green moss:   
For there the river comes winding down           
From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,   
And waves on the outer rocks afoam   
Shout to its waters, “Welcome home!”   

And fair are the sunny isles in view   
  East of the grisly Head of the Boar,           
And Agamenticus lifts its blue   
  Disk of a cloud the woodlands o’er;   
And southerly, when the tide is down,   
’Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown,   
The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel           
Over a floor of burnished steel.   

Once, in the old Colonial days,   
  Two hundred years ago and more,   
A boat sailed down through the winding ways   
  Of Hampton River to that low shore,           
Full of a goodly company   
Sailing out on the summer sea,   
Veering to catch the land-breeze light,   
With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.   

In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid           
  Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,   
“Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!”   
  A young man sighed, who saw them pass.   
Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand   
Whetting his scythe with a listless hand,            3
Hearing a voice in a far-off song,   
Watching a white hand beckoning long.   

“Fie on the witch!” cried a merry girl,   
  As they rounded the point where Goody Cole   
Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,           
  A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.   
“Oho!” she muttered, “ye ’re brave to-day!   
But I hear the little waves laugh and say,   
‘The broth will be cold that waits at home;   
For it ’s one to go, but another to come!’”           

“She ’s cursed,” said the skipper; “speak her fair:   
  I ’m scary always to see her shake   
Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair,   
  And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake.”   
But merrily still, with laugh and shout,           
From Hampton River the boat sailed out,   
Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,   
And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.   

They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,   
  Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;           
They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,   
  They heard not the feet with silence shod.   
But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,   
Shot by the lightnings through and through;   
And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,           
Ran along the sky from west to east.   

Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea   
  Up to the dimmed and wading sun;   
But he spake like a brave man cheerily,   
  “Yet there is time for our homeward run.”           
Veering and tacking, they backward wore;   
And just as a breath from the woods ashore   
Blew out to whisper of danger past,   
The wrath of the storm came down at last!   

The skipper hauled at the heavy sail:           
  “God be our help!” he only cried,   
As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,   
  Smote the boat on its starboard side.   
The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone   
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,           
Wild rocks lit up by the lightning’s glare,   
The strife and torment of sea and air.   

Goody Cole looked out from her door:   
  The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,   
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar           
  Toss the foam from tusks of stone.   
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,   
The tear on her cheek was not of rain:   
“They are lost,” she muttered, “boat and crew!   
Lord, forgive me! my words were true!”           

Suddenly seaward swept the squall;   
  The low sun smote through cloudy rack;   
The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all   
  The trend of the coast lay hard and black.   
But far and wide as eye could reach,           
No life was seen upon wave or beach;   
The boat that went out at morning never   
Sailed back again into Hampton River.   

O mower, lean on thy bended snath,   
  Look from the meadows green and low:           
The wind of the sea is a waft of death,   
  The waves are singing a song of woe!   
By silent river, by moaning sea,   
Long and vain shall thy watching be:   
Never again shall the sweet voice call,           
Never the white hand rise and fall!   

O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight   
  Ye saw in the light of breaking day!   
Dead faces looking up cold and white   
  From sand and seaweed where they lay.           
The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,   
And cursed the tide as it backward crept:   
“Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake!   
Leave your dead for the hearts that break!”   

Solemn it was in that old day           
  In Hampton town and its log-built church,   
Where side by side the coffins lay   
  And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.   
In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,   
The voices faltered that raised the hymn           
And Father Dalton, grave and stern,   
Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.   

But his ancient colleague did not pray,   
  Because of his sin at fourscore years:   
He stood apart, with the iron-gray           
  Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears.   
And a wretched woman, holding her breath   
In the awful presence of sin and death,   
Cowered and shrank, while her neighbors thronged   
To look on the dead her shame had wronged.           

Apart with them, like them forbid,   
  Old Goody Cole looked drearily round,   
As, two by two, with their faces hid,   
  The mourners walked to the burying-ground.   
She let the staff from her clasped hands fall:           
“Lord, forgive us! we ’re sinners all!”   
And the voice of the old man answered her:   
“Amen!” said Father Bachiler.   

So, as I sat upon Appledore   
  In the calm of a closing summer day,           
And the broken lines of Hampton shore   
  In purple mist of cloudland lay,   
The Rivermouth Rocks their story told;   
And waves aglow with sunset gold,   
Rising and breaking in steady chime,           
Beat the rhythm and kept the time.   

And the sunset paled, and warmed once more   
  With a softer, tenderer after-glow;   
In the east was moonrise, with boats off-shore   
  And sails in the distance drifting slow.           
The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,   
The White Isle kindled its great red star;   
And life and death in my old-time lay   
Mingled in peace like the night and day!


 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.America: Vols. XXV–XXIX.  1876–79.




 

"AT NORRIDGEWOCK" BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I had started worrying I wouldn't find a poem for this year's Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge when I found this poem in an anthology edited by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.There are three
reasons why this is perfect for my entry:

One, it's written by my distant cousin, John Greenleaf Whittier.

Two, it's about Norridgewock, Maine where three generations  of my Laughton family ancestors (all three of them named John Laughton) lived in the 18th century.

And three, it's about Fall.  


Here it is:

AT NORRIDGEWOCK.
by John Greenleaf Whittier

T' is morning over Norridgewock, —
  On tree and wigwam, wave and rock.
Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred
At intervals by breeze and bird,
And wearing all the hues which glow
In heaven's own pure and perfect bow,
   That glorious picture of the air,
Which summer's light-robed angel forms
On the dark ground of fading storms,
  With pencil dipped in sunbeams there,—
And, stretching out, on either hand,
O'er all that wide and unshorn land,
Till, weary of its gorgeousncss,
The aching and the dazzled eye
Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, —
   Slumbers the mighty wilderness!
The oak, upon the windy hill,
   Its dark green burthen upward heaves;
The hemlock broods above its rill.
Its cone-like foliage darker still,
   Against the birch's graceful stem,
And the rough walnut-bough receives
The suu upon its crowded leaves,
   Each colored like a topaz gem;
   And the tall maple wears with them
 The coronal, which autumn gives,
  The brief, bright sign of ruin near,
  The hectic of a dying year!-pp143-144

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed., Poems of Places: America Vol.II   Houghton, Mifflin And Company, Boston, Ma. 1851

HALLOWEEN TALES: "THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD" PT2

((First posted in October 2014))


My distant cousin Jonathan Moulton's first wife was Ann Smith who he married
in 1749 and with whom he had a family of eleven children. She died of smallpox
in 1775. He married  Sarah Emery in 1776, and their marriage resulted in four
more children. She is the "new wife" in a poem written by my 4th cousin 6x
removed John Greenleaf Whittier.   It's probable that Whittier may have met
one or more of Moulton's adult children, but as the foreword to the poem
indicates, he certainly was familiar with the legends that had sprung up
about Jonathan Moulton

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

[the following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected
with the famous Gen. M., of Hampton, N. H., who was regarded by his neighbors
as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when
a child, from a venerable family visitant.]

Dark the halls, and cold the feast—
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest!
All is over — all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood grey,
Autumn in the arms of May!

Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the grave-yard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Like the night's pulse, beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half uttered shriek and start —
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?

Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling —
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha !— that start of horror !— Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low:
"Spare me — spare me — let me go!"

God have mercy !— Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
"Fear not! give the dead her own!"

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows !
That cold hand whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream — an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
 Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, —
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and child-like on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread,
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.
pp117-120

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems Benjamin B. Mussey , Pub. Boston, Ma. 1850

A POEM BEFORE BED

((I first posted this back in January 2011. With the "Blizzard of 2015"
raging outside right now, I thought I'd repost it.)) 


We're supposed to be getting a blizzard here tonight. I thought an
excerpt from cousin John Greenleaf Whittier's poem Snowbound
would be an apropos blogpost before I head off to bed:

"Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores."

HALLOWEEN TALES: "THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD" PT2

My distant cousin Jonathan Moulton's first wife was Ann Smith who he married
in 1749 and with whom he had a family of eleven children. She died of smallpox
in 1775. He married  Sarah Emery in 1776, and their marriage resulted in four
more children. She is the "new wife" in a poem written by my 4th cousin 6x
removed John Greenleaf Whittier.   It's probable that Whittier may have met
one or more of Moulton's adult children, but as the foreword to the poem
indicates, he certainly was familiar with the legends that had sprung up
about Jonathan Moulton

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

[the following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected
with the famous Gen. M., of Hampton, N. H., who was regarded by his neighbors
as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when
a child, from a venerable family visitant.]

Dark the halls, and cold the feast—
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest!
All is over — all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood grey,
Autumn in the arms of May!

Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the grave-yard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Like the night's pulse, beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half uttered shriek and start —
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?

Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling —
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha !— that start of horror !— Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low:
"Spare me — spare me — let me go!"

God have mercy !— Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
"Fear not! give the dead her own!"

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows !
That cold hand whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream — an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
 Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, —
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and child-like on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread,
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.
pp117-120

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems Benjamin B. Mussey , Pub. Boston, Ma. 1850

HALLOWEEN TALES8: THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN

Tonight's Halloween Tale is a poem by distant cousin John Greenleaf Whittier
and concerns a story written about by Cotton Mather. Apparently a garrison on
Cape Ann in Massachusetts was the target of nightly attacks by warriors who
could not be killed. These continued for several weeks until they ceased as
suddenly as they began. On the other hand, perhaps the soldiers defending the
stockade were just poor marksmen?

THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN.

John Greenleaf  Whittier

Where the sea-waves back anil forward, hoarse with rolling pebbles,
ran,
The garrison-house stood watching on the gray rocks of Cape Ann;
On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and palisade,
And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moonlight overlaid.

Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit by dying brands,
Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their muskets in their hands;
On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunch was shared,
And the pewter tankard circled slowly round from beard to beard.

But their voices sank yet lower, sank to husky tones of fear,
As they spake of present tokens of the powers of evil near;
Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aim of gun;
Never yet was ball to slay them in the mould of mortals run!

Midnight came; from out the forest moved a dusky mass that soon
Grew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimly marching in the moon.
"Ghosts or witches," said the captain, "thus I foil the Evil One I"
And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet, down his gun.

"God preserve us!" said the captain; "never mortal foes were there
They have vanished with their leader, Prince and Power of the air!
Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and prowess naught avail;
They who do the Devil's service wear their master's coat of mail!"

So the night grew near to cock-crow, when again a warning call
Roused the score of weary soldiers watching round the dusky hall;
And they looked to flint and priming, and they longed for break of
day;
But the captain closed his Bible: "Let us cease from man, and
pray!"

To the men who went before us, all the unseen powers seemed near,
And their steadfast strength of courage struck its roots in holy fear.
Every hand forsook the musket, every head was bowed and bare,
Every stout knee pressed the flagstones, as the captain led in prayer.

Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spectres round the wall,
But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the ears and hearts of all, —
Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish! Never after mortal man
Saw the ghostly leaguers marching round the blockhouse of Cape
Ann.