As the Upstate is finally blessed with sweater weather and the smell of tailgating in the air, football rivalries are growing intense. Witches and goblins gather and stand ready to invade us with Halloween tricks – or treats. Ipswitch is a classical poem that holds its own special place (genre) in literature. It tastes like Halloween: Ipswitch is in England, believed to be the first port city attacked by Vikings centuries ago, and to this day still has twelve medieval churches. The poet, a journalist, was born before the Civil War and died forty-five years later. Ipswitch is my all-time favorite poem because it is a showcase of form, rhythm, meter, theme, tone, imagery, etc. It is full of life lessons, sentiment, and its last line is an October surprise! Ipswitch is in the public domain.
Ipswitch
By Eugene Field
In Ipswich nights are cool and fair,
And the voice that comes from the yonder sea
Sings to the quaint old mansions there
Of “the time, the time that used to be”;
And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,
And they seem to say in an undertone,
With half a sight and with half a moan:
“It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich witches weave at night
Their magic spells with impish glee;
They shriek and laugh in their demon flight
From the old Main House to the frightened sea.
And ghosts of eld come out to weep
Over the town that is fast asleep;
And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:
“It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill
Over against the calling sea;
And through the nights so deep and chill
Watcheth a maiden constantly,—
Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear
Over the roar of the waves anear
The pitiful cry of a far-off year:
“It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich once a witch I knew,—
An artless Saxon witch was she;
By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,
Sweet was the spell she cast on me.
Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,
And the heart that is old and battered and chill
Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill
What was, but never again can be.
Dear Anna, I would not conjure down
The ghost that cometh to solace me;
I love to think of old Ipswich town,
Where somewhat better than friends were we;
For with every thought of the dear old place
Cometh again the tender grace
Of a Saxon witch’s pretty face,
As it was, and is, and ever shall be.
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