And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, From their low scaffolds to their eaves. On Esek Harden's oaken floor, With many an autumn threshing worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. And thither came young men and maids, Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago. They took their places; some by chance, And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guided to their choice. How pleasantly the rising moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, On girlhood with its solid curves Of healthful strength and painless nerves! And jests went round, and laughs that made The house-dog answer with his howl, And kept astir the barn-yard fowl; And quaint old songs their fathers sung In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their shores; And tales, whose merry license shook The fat sides of the Saxon thane, Forgetful of the hovering Dane,-- Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, The charms and riddles that beguiled On Oxus' banks the young world's child,-- That primal picture-speech wherein Have youth and maid the story told, So new in each, so dateless old, Recalling pastoral Ruth in her Who waited, blushing and demure, The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. But still the sweetest voice was mute That river-valley ever heard From lips of maid or throat of bird; For Mabel Martin sat apart, And let the hay-mow's shadow fall Upon the loveliest face of all. She sat apart, as one forbid, Who knew that none would condescend To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. The seasons scarce had gone their round, Since curious thousands thronged to see Her mother at the gallows-tree; And mocked the prison-palsied limbs That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers! Few questioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die; Dreamed of the daughter's agony. They went up to their homes that day, As men and Christians justified God willed it, and the wretch had died! Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- Forgive the blindness that denies! Forgive thy creature when he takes, For the all-perfect love Thou art, Some grim creation of his heart. Cast down our idols, overturn Our bloody altars; let us see Thyself in Thy humanity! Young Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, And wrestled with her fate alone;