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The Puritan and The Maiden
-~{ The Puritan and The Maiden }~-
A Puritan of Salem town, a swordsman of high renown,
Went riding out of the gates, of the ancient stockade…
Oh fare ye well to town, said the swordsman of renown,
For I have been a militiaman, and I shall not be afraid!
And so he spurred his horse along a trail little traveled…
Through Indian country and beyond, in places so dark,
That any lesser man would feel all his nerves unraveled…
But steely was that Puritan’s resolve, and so on a lark,
He journeyed beyond lands called civilized by mankind,
Saying fare ye well to the place of his birth and family.
He was always a man so different in spirit and in mind,
Unafraid: of the things that oft haunted the wild country.
But oft a snow-white owl watched him on his journeys,
Seeming to mock him, when he did only as he pleased.
Whilst riding along an autumn trail covered with leaves,
From high oak trees: of fiery orange and yellow colors…
Seeking after the kind of adventure as nobody believes,
The Puritan saw a gray landscape, cold and dolorous…
Where the mists of a recent rain made wet those roads,
The few of which crossed marshes thick with old toads.
Dying were the woods that grew from out fouler bogs…
Than any the Puritan had seen before in all of his years.
Villages here and there: their fences all of rotting logs…
Empty of life, he passed through and heard loud tears.
Wept by ghosts unseen, and so assuming it the wind…
The Puritan left those villages behind and set out again.
But as evening came, his breath was cold and laboring,
His steed was pushed too far, and both were suffering.
Finally, he came unto a graveyard perched upon hills,
Surrounded by a low stone wall broken with neglect…
He passed the wall, as his horse shook with foul chills,
Dying beneath him, and so he had not time to reflect…
Only to leave the beast behind him: and journey along.
But all about him the sound of a violin playing a song…
Familiar and haunting: that called the dead from sleep!
And so, the dead of ages did from the evil soil creep…
To the tune of a white-dressed figure by some old oak,
Who sat upon a log playing the tune, but never spoke.
The Puritan saw the dead begin to join in a dire waltz,
As he thought he heard a voice recalling his old faults.
The pale one with the violin, a raven-haired maid she,
Stopped only to light candles all around, for all to see.
The dance of the dead continued long for it was night,
And long were the hours, before the break of dawn…
With those grim dancers: the Puritan’s long-dead wife,
Did plead for him to join her upon the graveyard lawn.
And thence, the dead encircled the Puritan all about…
He could not fight them, for his sword but only metal.
No silver had he to ward off death; only cruel doubt…
And that was not enough to postpone his death rattle.
He danced with his wife, and upon the break of morn,
When the pale one’s violin had played its’ final note…
The Puritan lay lifeless, his finery all tattered and torn,
And of his tragic tale: nothing more, the tellers wrote.
But on cold nights in autumn, a pale white maid plays,
A lonely violin: until the coming of the sun's gold rays.
A Puritan of Salem town, a swordsman of high renown,
Went riding out of the gates, of the ancient stockade…
Oh fare ye well to town, said the swordsman of renown,
For I have been a militiaman, and I shall not be afraid!
And so he spurred his horse along a trail little traveled…
Through Indian country and beyond, in places so dark,
That any lesser man would feel all his nerves unraveled…
But steely was that Puritan’s resolve, and so on a lark,
He journeyed beyond lands called civilized by mankind,
Saying fare ye well to the place of his birth and family.
He was always a man so different in spirit and in mind,
Unafraid: of the things that oft haunted the wild country.
But oft a snow-white owl watched him on his journeys,
Seeming to mock him, when he did only as he pleased.
Whilst riding along an autumn trail covered with leaves,
From high oak trees: of fiery orange and yellow colors…
Seeking after the kind of adventure as nobody believes,
The Puritan saw a gray landscape, cold and dolorous…
Where the mists of a recent rain made wet those roads,
The few of which crossed marshes thick with old toads.
Dying were the woods that grew from out fouler bogs…
Than any the Puritan had seen before in all of his years.
Villages here and there: their fences all of rotting logs…
Empty of life, he passed through and heard loud tears.
Wept by ghosts unseen, and so assuming it the wind…
The Puritan left those villages behind and set out again.
But as evening came, his breath was cold and laboring,
His steed was pushed too far, and both were suffering.
Finally, he came unto a graveyard perched upon hills,
Surrounded by a low stone wall broken with neglect…
He passed the wall, as his horse shook with foul chills,
Dying beneath him, and so he had not time to reflect…
Only to leave the beast behind him: and journey along.
But all about him the sound of a violin playing a song…
Familiar and haunting: that called the dead from sleep!
And so, the dead of ages did from the evil soil creep…
To the tune of a white-dressed figure by some old oak,
Who sat upon a log playing the tune, but never spoke.
The Puritan saw the dead begin to join in a dire waltz,
As he thought he heard a voice recalling his old faults.
The pale one with the violin, a raven-haired maid she,
Stopped only to light candles all around, for all to see.
The dance of the dead continued long for it was night,
And long were the hours, before the break of dawn…
With those grim dancers: the Puritan’s long-dead wife,
Did plead for him to join her upon the graveyard lawn.
And thence, the dead encircled the Puritan all about…
He could not fight them, for his sword but only metal.
No silver had he to ward off death; only cruel doubt…
And that was not enough to postpone his death rattle.
He danced with his wife, and upon the break of morn,
When the pale one’s violin had played its’ final note…
The Puritan lay lifeless, his finery all tattered and torn,
And of his tragic tale: nothing more, the tellers wrote.
But on cold nights in autumn, a pale white maid plays,
A lonely violin: until the coming of the sun's gold rays.
Published 24th Jan 2012
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24th Jan 2012 8:44am
24th Jan 2012 8:50am
I am happy you loved the poem! If you enjoyed this poem, be sure to also check out my other latest entry, "The Dying Gunslinger". It is very similar in theme and in spirit to this poem.
