C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Ipswich
By Eugene Field (1850–1895)
I
And the voice that comes from the yonder sea
Sings to the quaint old mansions there
Of “the time, the time that used to be”;
And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,
And they seem to say in an undertone,
With half a sigh and with half a moan:—
“It was, but it never again will be.”
Their magic spells with impish glee;
They shriek and laugh in their demon flight
From the old Main House to the frightened sea.
And ghosts of eld come out to weep
Over the town that is fast asleep;
And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:—
“It was, but it never again will be.”
Over against the calling sea;
And through the nights so deep and chill
Watcheth a maiden constantly,—
Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear
Over the roar of the waves anear
The pitiful cry of a far-off year:—
“It was, but it never again will be.”
An artless Saxon witch was she;
By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,
Sweet was the spell she cast on me.
Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,
And the heart that is old and battered and chill
Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill
What was, but never again can be.
The ghost that cometh to solace me;
I love to think of old Ipswich town,
Where somewhat better than friends were we;
For with every thought of the dear old place
Cometh again the tender grace
Of a Saxon witch’s pretty face,
As it was, and is, and ever shall be.