Around him spread a girdling line; The fatal snare was laid; And when down aisles of birch and pine They saw the first slant sun-rays shine, They sprang their ambuscade. And did he slink, or did he shrink From that relentless ring? Nay, not a coward did he sink, But leaped across Death's darkling brink A savage, yet a king! Then unto him whose bolt of lead Had struck King Philip down, They gave the Sachem's hand and head; Then back they marched, with triumph tread, To joyful Plymouth-town. On Philip's name a bloody blot The white man's writ has thrown,-- The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot; _And yet what one of us would not Do battle for his own!_ CLINTON SCOLLARD. The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness, and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history. PROLOGUE From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms" Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,-- These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past. Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,-- Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,-- Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace? 'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead. Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!"