Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
 
569. Salem
 
A. D. 1692
 
By Edmund Clarence Stedman
 
 
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 in gives the signe:        5
  Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.
 
In Meetinge-time I watched you well,
  While godly Master Parris prayed:
Your folded hands laye on your brooke;
But Richard answered to a looke        10
That fain would tempt him unto hell,
  Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.
 
You looke into my Richard’s eyes
  With evill glances shameless growne;
I found about his wriste a hair,        15
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)        20
A childe, to hange upon your growne!
He loved me well in Salem Towne
Until this wanton witcherie
  His hearte and myne crept dark betweene.
 
Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,        25
  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.        30
 
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        35
  The stones of Gallowes Hill shall tread.
 

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