Poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman

Witchcraft

A. D. 1692

SOE, Mistress Anne, faire neighbour myne,
  How rides a witche when nighte-winds blowe?
Folk saye that you are none too goode
To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,
When one you wot of gives the signe:
  Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.

In Meetinge-time I watched you well,
  Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:
Your folded hands laye on your booke;
But Richard answered to a looke
That fain would tempt him unto hell,
  Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.

You looke into my Richard's eyes
  With evill glances shamelesse growne;
I found about his wriste a hair,
And guesse what fingers tyed it there:
He shall not lightly be your prize--
  Your Master firste shall take his owne.

'T is not in nature he should be
  (Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)
A childe, to hange upon your gowne!
He loved me well in Salem Towne
Until this wanton witcherie
  His hearte and myne crept dark betweene.

Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,
  Your goodman missed you from his side.
He had no strength to move, untill
Agen, as if in slumber still,
Beside him at the dawne you laye.
  Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.

Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete
  As driftes the Bay fogg overhead--
Or over yonder hill-topp, where
There is a tree ripe fruite shall bear
When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet
  The stones of Gallowes Hill shall tread.

1. “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos?”
2. Sumter
3. Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call
4. The Heart of New England
5. Kearny at Seven Pines

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