Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WISE-WOMAN, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WISE-WOMAN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: In the last low cottage in blackthorn lane
Last Line: Perchance.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Old Age; Women


IN the last low cottage in Blackthorn Lane
The Wise-woman lives alone;
The broken thatch lets in the rain,
The glass is shattered in every pane
With stones the boys have thrown.

For who would not throw stones at a witch?
Take any safe revenge
For the father's lameness, the mother's stitch,
The sheep that died on its back in a ditch,
And the mildewed corn in the grange?

Only be sure to be out of sight
Of the witch's baleful eye!
So the stones, for the most, are thrown at night,
Then a scuffle of feet, a hurry of fright --
How fast those urchins fly!

The witch's garden is run to weeds,
Never a phlox or a rose,
But infamous growths her brewing needs,
Or slimy mosses the rank soil breeds,
Or tares such as no man sows.

This is the house. Lift up the latch --
Faugh, the smoke and the smell!
A broken bench, some rags that catch
The drip of the rain from the broken thatch --
Are these the wages of Hell!

The witch -- who wonders? -- is bent with cramp.
Satan himself cannot cure her,
For the beaten floor is oozing damp,
And the moon, through the roof, might serve for a lamp,
Only a rushlight's surer.

And here some night she will die alone,
When the cramp clutches tight at her heart,
Let her cry in her anguish, and sob, and moan,
The tenderest woman the village has known
Would shudder -- but keep apart.

May she die in her bed! A likelier chance
Were the dog's death, drowned in the pond.
The witch when she passes it looks askance:
They ducked her once, when the horse bit Nance;
She remembers, and looks beyond.

For then she had perished in very truth,
But the Squire's son, home from college,
Rushed to the rescue, himself forsooth
Plunged after the witch. -- Yes, I like the youth
For all his new-fangled knowledge. --

How he stormed at the cowards! What a rage
Heroic flashed in his eyes!
But many a struggle and many an age
Must pass ere the same broad heritage
Be given the fools and the wise.

"Cowards!" he cried. He was lord of the land
He was mighty to them, and rich.
They let him rant; but on either hand
They shrank from the devil's unseen brand
On the sallow face of the witch.

They let him rant; but, deep in his heart,
Each thought of some thing of his own
Wounded or hurt by the Wise-woman's art;
Some friend estranged, or some lover apart.
Their hearts grew cold as stone.

And the Heir spoke on, in his eager youth,
His blue eyes full of flame;
And he claspt the witch, as he spoke of the Truth;
And the dead, cold Past; and of Love and of Ruth --
But their hearts were still the same,

Till at last -- "For the sake of Christ who died,
Mother, forgive them," he said.
"Come, let us kneel, let us pray!" he cried...
But horror-stricken, aghast, from his side
The witch broke loose and fled!

Fled right fast from the brave amends
He would make her then and there;
From the chance that Heaven so seldom sends
To turn our bitterest foes to friends, --
Fled, at the name of a prayer!

Poor lad, he stared so, amazed and grieved.
He had argued half an hour;
And yet the beldam herself believed,
No less than the villagers she deceived,
In her own unholy power!

Though surely a witch should know very well
'Tis the lie for which she will burn.
She must have learned that the deepest spell
Her art includes could ne'er compel
A quart of cream to turn.

And why, knowing this, should one sell one's soul
To gain such a life as hers --
The life of the bat and the burrowing mole --
To gain no vision and no control,
Not even the power to curse?

'Tis strange, and a riddle still in my mind
To-day as well as then.
There's never an answer I could find
Unless -- O folly of humankind!
O vanity born with men!

Rather it may be than merely remain
A woman poor and old,
No longer like to be courted again
For the sallow face deep lined with pain,
Or the heart grown sad and cold.

Such bitter souls may there be, I think,
So craving the power that slips,
Rather than lose it, they would drink
The waters of Hell, and lie at the brink
Of the grave, with eager lips.

They sooner would, than slip from sight,
Meet every eye askance;
Sooner be counted an imp of the night,
Sooner live on as a curse and a blight
Than just be forgotten?
Perchance.





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