A Fable of Salem

"Come quickly!" wept the dying Grace;
"Abide with me, my pastor!
Then might I finish well the race,
And mount and fly the faster;
Then might I suffer the Maker's face
And kiss the feet of the Master."

But far away the forest rocked
With storms from curst dominions;
The witches skirred, the wizards flocked,
The air was thick with pinions;
And there the minister danced 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 parson skipped like a jumping-jack
To think his deacons were sleeping.

But high above the mongrel herd,
Above the maddened Endor,
The mighty, shining cohorts gird
A throne of awful splendor,
And a seraph sternly writes a word
No language of earth can render.