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 And when from off his grounded boat
He saw them mount and ride,
“God keep her from the evil eye,
And harm of witch!” he cried.
The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh
At all its fears gone by;
‘He does not know,’ she whispered low,
‘A little witch am I.’
All day he urged his weary horse,
And, in the red sundown,
Drew rein before a friendly door
In distant Berwick town.
A fellow-feeling for the wronged
The Quaker people felt;
And safe beside their kindly hearths
The hunted maiden dwelt,
Until from off its breast the land
The haunting horror threw,
And hatred, born of ghastly dreams,
To shame and pity grew.
Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad
Its golden summer day,
But blithe and glad its withered fields,
And skies of ashen gray;
For spell and charm had power no more,
The spectres ceased to roam,
And scattered households knelt again
Around the hearths of home.
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