“It’s never my own little daughter, It’s never my own,” she said; “The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead. “O, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold; But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old. “I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin; It’s not the milk from my bosom, But my blood, that she sucks in. “My face grows sharp with the torment; Look! my arms are skin and bone!―― Rake open the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own. “She’ll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat, And she’ll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat.” Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head: “Thy sorrow is great, O woman! I sorrow with thee,” he said. “The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it: My poor wife, let us pray.” Then he said to the great All-Father, “Thy daughter is weak and blind; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind. “Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild; Let the holy love of the mother, Turn again to her child. “Make her lips like the lips of Mary, Kissing her blessed Son; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one. “Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison door, And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore.” Then into the face of its mother, The baby looked up and smiled; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child. A beam of slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair, Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder And the rings of pale gold hair. She kissed it on lip and forehead, She kissed it on cheek and chin; And she bared her snow-white bosom To the lips so pale and thin. O, fair on her bridal morning Was the maid who blushed and smiled But fairer to Ezra Dalton Looked the mother of his child. With more than a lover’s fondness He stooped to her worn young face And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace. “Now mount and ride, my goodman As lovest thine own soul! Woe’s me if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole!” His horse he saddled and bridled, And into the night rode he,―― Now through the great black woodland; Now by the white-beached sea. He rode through the silent clearings, He came to the ferry wide, And thrice he called to the boatman Asleep on the other side. He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newburg town, And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown.