The Fable of Salem

By John William De Forest

“come quickly!” Wept the dying Grace;

“Abide with me my Pator,

then I might finish well the race,

And mount and fly the faster;

Then might I suffer the makers face

And kiss the feet of the master.”

But far away the forest rocked

With storms from first dominions;

The witches skirred, the wizard flocked,

The air was thick with pinions;

And there the ministers dance and mocked

With Satan’s sootiest minions.

He mocked and danced in priestly black;

No warlock matched his leaping.

Apollyon clapped his portly back

And laughed almost to weeping;

And the person skipped like a jumping jack

To think his Deacons were sleeping.

But high above the mongrel herd,

Above the maddened Endor,

The mighty, shinning cohorts gird

A throne of awful splendor,

And a Seraph sternly writes a word.

No language of earth can render

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