John Greenleaf Whittier (जॉन ग्रीनलीफ व्हिटियर)

FOR the fairest maid in Hampton,They needed not to search.

Who saw young Anna favor,Come walking into church,--.

Or bringing from the meadows,At set of harvest-day.

The frolic of the blackbirds,The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers,The saddest two years' bride.

She scowls in 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 chink.

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.

He set his horse to the river,He swam to Newbury town.

And he called up Justice Sewall,In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice,(Upon whose soul be peace!).

Set his name to the jailer's warrant,For Goodwife Cole's release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats,Went sounding like a flail.

And Goody Cole at cockcrow,Came forth from Ipswich jail.

Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings.

Where the noisome insect stings,Where the fever demon strews.

Poison with the falling dews,Where the sickly sunbeams glare.

Through the hot and misty air,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,From Virginia's hills and waters.

Woe is me, my stolen daughters!,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,There no mother's eye is near them.

There no mother's ear can hear them,Never, when the torturing lash.

Seams their back with many a gash,Shall a mother's kindness bless them.

Or a mother's arms caress them,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

Woe is me, my stolen daughters!,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,Oh, when weary, sad, and slow.

From the fields at night they go,Faint with toil, and racked with pain.

To their cheerless homes again,There no brother's voice shall greet them.

There no father's welcome meet them,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,From the tree whose shadow lay.

On their childhood's place of play,From the cool sprmg where they drank.

Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank,From the solemn house of prayer.

And the holy counsels there,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,Toiling through the weary day.

And at night the spoiler's prey,Oh, that they had earlier died.

Sleeping calmly, side by side,Where the tyrant's power is o'er.

And the fetter galls no more!,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,From Virginia's hills and waters.

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,By the holy love He beareth.

By the bruised reed He spareth,Oh, may He, to whom alone.

All their cruel wrongs are known,Still their hope and refuge prove.

With a more than mother's love,Gone, gone, -- sold and gone.

Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills.

The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!.

Not the braes of bloom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain.

Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!.

Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer, -.

To the cottage and the castle,The Scottish pipes are dear; -.

Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch,O'er mountain, loch, and glade.

But the sweetest of all music,The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger,Louder yelled, and nearer crept.

Round and round the jungle-serpent,Near and nearer circles swept.

'Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -,Pray to-day!' the soldier said.

'To-morrow, death's between us,And the wrong and shame we dread.'.

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair.

And the sobs of low bewailing,Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground.

'Dinna ye hear it? - dinna ye hear it?,The pipes o' Havelock sound!'.

Hushed the wounded man his groaning,Hushed the wife her little ones.

Alone they heard the drum-roll,And the roar of Sepoy guns.