A special jury,
instituted to try the suspects, went to work without delay. On June 2, 1692,
Bridget Bishop was tried and condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30
the court sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed soon
afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nurse, seventy-one years of age,
universally beloved and of excellent character. The jury was with great
difficulty persuaded to convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but
Parris, who had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and on
July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill and hanged.
The chill New England
sunshine
Lay on the kitchen
floor;
The wild New England
north wind
Came rattling at the
door.
And by the wide old
fire-place,
Deep in her cushioned
chair,
Lay back an ancient
woman,
With shining snow-white
hair.
The peace of God was on
her face,
Her eyes were sweet and
calm,
And when you heard her
earnest voice
It sounded like a
psalm.
In all the land they
loved her well;
From country and from
town
Came many a heart for
counsel,
And many a soul cast
down.
Her hands had fed the
hungry poor
With blessing and with
bread;
Her face was like a
comforting
From out the Gospel
read.
So weak and silent as
she lay,
Her warm hands clasped
in prayer,
A sudden knocking at
the door
Came on her unaware.
And as she turned her
hoary head,
Beside her chair there
stood
Four grim and grisly
Puritans--
No visitants for good.
They came upon her like
a host,
And bade her speak and
tell
Why she had sworn a
wicked oath
To serve the powers of
hell;
To work the works of
darkness
On children of the
light,
A witch they might not
suffer here
Who read the Word
aright.
Like one who sees her
fireside yawn,
A pit of black despair,
Or one who wakes from
quiet dreams
Within a lion’s lair,
She glared at them with
starting eyes,
Her voice essayed no
sound;
She gasped like any
hunted deer
The eager dogs
surround.
“Answer us!” hoarse and
loud they cry;
She looked from side to
side--
No human help--“Oh,
gracious God!”
In agony she cried.
Then, calling back her
feeble life,
The white lips uttered
slow,
“I am as pure as the
babe unborn
From this foul thing,
ye know.
“If God doth visit me
for sin,
Beneath His rod I bend,”
But pitiless and wroth
were they,
And bent upon their
end.
They tortured her with
taunt and jeer,
They vexed her night
and day--
No husband’s arm nor
sister’s tears
Availed their rage to
stay.
Before the church they
haled her then;
The minister arose
And poured upon her
patient head
The worst of all its
woes:
He bade her be accused
of God
Forever here and there;
He cursed her with a
heavy curse
No mortal man may bear.
She stood among the
cowering crowd
As calm as saints in
heaven,
Her eyes as sweet as
summer skies,
Her face like summer’s
even.
The devils wrought
their wicked will
On matron and on maid.
“Thou hast bewitched
us!”cried they all,
But not a word she
said.
They fastened chains
about her feet,
And carried her away;
For many days in Salem
jail
Alone and ill she lay
She heard the scythe along
the field
Ring through the
fragrant air,
She smelt the wild-rose
on the wind
That bloweth
everywhere.
Reviled and hated and
bereft,
The soul had plenteous
rest,
Though sorrow like a
frantic flood
Beat sore upon her
breast.
At last the prison door
stood wide,
They led the saint
abroad;
By many an old familiar
place
Her trembling footsteps
trod.
Till faint with
weakness and distress,
She climbed a hillside
bleak,
And faced the gallows
built thereon,
Still undisturbed and
meek.
They hanged this weary
woman there,
Like any felon stout;
Her white hairs on the
cruel rope
Were scattered all
about.
The body swung upon the
tree
In every flitting wind,
Reviled and mocked by
passengers
And folk of evil mind.
A woman old and
innocent,
To die a death of
shame,
With kindred,
neighbors, friends thereby,
And none to utter
blame.
Oh, God, that such a
thing should be
On earth which Thou
hast made!
A voice from heaven
answered me,
“Father forgive,”He
said.
Rose Terry Cooke