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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A WITCH'S WILL, by JANE BARLOW Poet's Biography First Line: When o'er the purple ridge the moon rist up Last Line: But where she bode came never shine nor song. Subject(s): Devil; Evil; Witchcraft & Witches; Satan; Mephistopheles; Lucifer; Beelzebub | |||
WHEN o'er the purple ridge the moon rist up From founts of ebbing sunset to the brim Full-filled with amber fire her clear-orbed cup, Old Mother Deb, a witch-wife gaunt and grim, Crouched by her cot-hearth watched as lights grew dim Its dull red eye blink out. One friend with her Sat glowering, embers twain of rounded rim Kindled in coal-black of his fleckless fur. Half to herself, and half to himso cheat Old lonesome folk their silence: 'Well, they've caught Rob Pendrick,' quotha, 'pressed him for the fleet In Falmouth town. I heard it where I bought Our meal this morn. Wat Nesbit's good-for-naught Curst wench soon nudged me out; but nigh the door I hearkened. Marry, if once on board he's brought, He'll ne'er again belike set foot on shore. 'For, soothly, small account they make of such On the high seas; there sink and burn amain Spaniards, and Frenchmen, and the Devil's own Dutch; And some pest-poisoned lie, or prisoners ta'en; Fall as it may, they fare not home again. This Rob was grown a likely lad beyond His mates, for all, I'll wager, blithe and fain He'd bear a hand to hale me through the pond. 'Time waswell, well, we have our day, one day, At worst and best, and mine is done. So here 'Tis Molly Vance, his sweetheart, sits, they say, Crying out her eyes for losing of her dear. Mew, Malkyn, more fool she, who'll lack a tear Ere ever she'll want for trouble her tears should rue; That's plentier as I've known this many a year Dry-eyed. Moll's young enoughshe'll learn it too. 'Five guineas' fine they ask to let him go. Gramercy, Sirs! A pretty price, in troth. That bargain they'll scarce strike. A deal to show For five good guineas! Yet I'll take mine oath The silly maid down yonder, nothing loth, Would freight their ship with gold, if gold she had Wants wit and wealth alike. By luck I've both, And no concern, God wot, in lass or lad.' Through fitful gloom she groped with tapping crutch, Till at her feet it stirred a loose-laid flag Hiding a hollow, and thence her eager clutch Drew somewhat linen-lapt: a leathern bag, Whose puckered mouth, still chuckling low, the hag Twitched open, and, dropped from forth it, clink and chink, Caught warily in her kirtle's miser rag A store of coin that shone with silvern blink. Coins large and less, from crown-piece broad, where pranced The steed and writhed the worm, to meagre groat: From some fire-new our pleasant monarch glanced, Some, rim-worn, bore Queen Bess beruffed of throat. But o'er them all the crone did lingering gloat, Slipping them softly her fingers through and through, As you shall mark fond grandams where they doat Toy with a downy curl and praise its hue. 'That were a wedding not amiss to see, A comely pair', she said, 'but wind and wave Will part them ere they're joined at such a fee. Lord, I used year on year to pinch and save These same. No talk those times of Satan's slave; I had but skill in simples, as folk had aches. So one a groat, and one a tester gave For draughts to drug their pains or cure their quakes. 'Yet if yon bells had rung for her, I doubt They had ever knolled a bride across the green Could match with Molly. I might have lurked about And watched them where the lych-path runs between The privet hedge and yew: so thick their screen, A body would peep, and ne'er an urchin spy To pelt me off with stones, as yester-e'en, Lest harm betide them from the evil eye. 'But therehe sails,' quoth she, and bit by bit 'Gan purse her pelf up, slowly, as scarce she brooked To shroud it. And when all the knots were knit, Long, long upon her folded hoard she looked. Then where the smouldering log glowed ruddiest nooked She thrust a twig, and with its charred end black Traced on the wrappage strokes uncouth and crookt: For Moly Vance To Buye her Swetehert backe. Forth to the night she went. By now its moon Soared high in air, but film-flaked mists did weave Her rays round, meshed as in a wan cocoon. Up from the hamlet did the long slope heave Slant grain-fields; and as skirting paths gave leave, Down limped the Dame, where from the rustling edge Ripe corn-ears bobbed at her, and oft her sleeve Was plucked by briars that trailed about the hedge. Niched at the hill-foot, Molly's cot deepthatched Stood very small and lone; yet nought of ill Durst entrance seek, since by the door unlatched The floor was strewn with trefoil, vervain, dill, That grow to hinder witches of their will; Nailed high, the horseshoe fended overhead, And straws lay crossed aright athwart the sill: Wherefore no gramarie's spell might there be spread. And near the threshold, where first foot must find, The witch her burden laid, and slunk away. Even as she went, Moll, fallen asleep tear-blind, Half wakened from a dream that down the Bay She saw her lover sail. 'Alas the day, My heart will break,' mourned she, 'will break outright. I doubt not yon ill Dame, as neighbours say, Has wrought me this shrewd turn for grudge and spite.' But now Dame Deb, her sour face set for home, Was halting up the hillside. Clocks had tolled The small hours chill, and toward the western foam Low dipped the large moon, that with long beams stoled Those burnished harvest haulms in ghostly gold. One Farmer Thring, whose sleep betimes did flit, Looked forth, espied her footing past, and cold At marrow felt, with dire foreboding smit. 'The old hag abroad among the fields this night What harm should that betoken? I'll be bound There's mischief brewing, murrain or storm or blight; By noon, mayhap, thick hailstones pelted round, White as our meal that never shall be ground. Ay, where clouds wreck that such as she bid sail Shame but her sort were ridded, roast or drowned Bides little grist for mill, or grain for flail.' Up climbed the slope and up. Steps halt and weak Tread ways unmeasured: 'twas in weary wise Dame Deb toiled on to gain her dwelling bleak, What time such spectral gleams did haunt the skies As mock scared night in loitering day's disguise Ere dawn. But all within her narrow room Was mirkest shade. E'en Malkyn's glimmering eyes Sleep sealed beside the cold hearth's blank of gloom. There should the witch see brooding evermore Twice-folden shadows, since herself had willed To quench the joy-spark misery cowers o'er, Numbed else by frore despair. Even so, heart-chilled, Her latch she drew. Eftsoon the east fire-silled Its rosed flame swept the dew-sprent meads along Fast by her door, and blithe the finches trilled. But where she bode came never shine nor song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DEVIL'S SERMON by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS WAR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE TEMPTRESS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON ADDRESS TO THE DEIL by ROBERT BURNS THE DEVIL'S WALK [ON EARTH] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE SIFTING OF PETER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A CURLEW'S CALL by JANE BARLOW |
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