The Wise-Woman
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?
250
