Poems (Spofford)/Marion

MARION.

Two hundred years ago, they say,
On pleasant Topsfield's wind-swept hill,
Where now your honeyed gardens glow,
Nightly the witches worked their will.

Ah, what an hour! The red moon tipped
Her horns athwart the tide, and sent
Vague gleams that o'er the forest glades
Like flaming phantoms came and went.

And madly tossed the boughs, to catch
The stars' white fires in eager play;
And all the wizard rout streamed up,
Flared in the beam, and streamed away.

Then folk, belated in the wood,
Shivered to see, as past they whirled,
The hurtling glance of baleful eyes,
The yellow tress that wild winds curled.

For these could blight the world in flower,
Could shake strange sorrows out of fate;
Could burn with frost, or burn with fire,
And curdle heart's love into hate.

They were the witches of Witch Hill,
Famed far and near, a haunting crew;
And yet, I think, in all the troop
Was not so great a witch as you!

You, who came hither, from the shore
Where a queen's palace-gardens still
Blow blossom-breath far out to sea,
To your own gardens on the hill;

You, who, with shadowy eyes, wherein
The evening star to splendor starts,
With tones that ripple like the brooks,
Found the swift way to all our hearts;

You, who still wear a child's bright brow,
But for all things of sore and sad
Out of an aching pity pour
Largess of love to make them glad;

You, who shall help the world to flower,
Strange sorrows heal with stranger skill,
And bring new magic round you here,
My little witch of old Witch Hill!