A SALEM MOTHER

They whisper at my very gate,

These clacking gossips every one,

“We saw them in the wood of late,

Her and the widow's son;

The horses at the forge may wait,

The wool may go unspun.”

I spread the food he loves the best,

I light the lamp when day is done,

Yet still he stays another's guest —

Oh, my one son, my son.

I would it burned in mine own breast

The spell he may not shun.

She hath bewitched him with her eyes.

( No goodly maid hath eyes as bright. )

Pale in the morn I watch him rise,

As one who wanders far by night.

The gossips whisper and surmise —

I hide me from the light.