This poem was quoted by GUEST,symon on 09 Aug 2008: From West-Country Verses by Arthur Leslie Salmon (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1908), page 10. WIDDECOMBE ON THE MOOR. The devil came to Widdecombe With thunder and with flame; He left behind at Widdecombe A terror and a name; And this, the moorland voices tell, Is how the devil came. The autumn flashed with red and gold Along the Devon lanes; The tangled hedges of the wold Were rich with mellow stains,— The torrents of the moorland old Were turbulent with rains. There came a stranger to the inn And sought to know his way— To Poundstock on the moor he came In sombre black array; He asked the road to Widdecombe— It was the Sabbath-day. He shouted loudly for a drink— His sable steed he stroked; And when he tossed the liquor down, It boiled and hissed and smoked; Like water on a red-hot iron The hissing liquor soaked. "Good woman, will you be my guide To Widdecombe on the moor?" With trembling accent she declined— She said the road was sure. She saw a cloven hoof strike out As he spurred away from the door. Low on the massy cleaves and tors A boding trouble lay— A ceaseless murmur of the streams Came through the silent day. The stranger rode to Widdecombe,— Full well he found the way. The folk were gathered in the church To hear the evening pray'r, And if 'twas dark enough without, 'Twas threefold darker there; And on the gathered people fell A shudder and a scare. Now is the time, oh kneeling folk, To pray with fervent fear, For the enemy of the soul of man, Devouring fiend, is near, And evil thoughts and base desires Unbind his fetters here. Sudden upon the moorland kirk The crash of thunder broke— A noise as of a thousand guns, With many a lightning-stroke,— A blackness as of blackest night, With fitful fire and smoke. It seemed the Day of doom had come; The roof was torn and rent, And through the church from end to end A fearful flame-ball went. It seemed the dreadful Day had come In wild bewilderment. The stranger came to Widdecombe— He tied his horse without; He rushed into the crashing door With fiendish laugh and shout; Through the door the fiery stranger came, Through the shattered roof went out. Men prayed with terror and remorse— In frenzied fear they cried; And one lay dead with cloven head, His blood besprinkled wide— And one was struck so dire a stroke That of his hurt he died. Down through the roof the turret came— The spire was twisted stark. A beam came crushing down between The parson and the clerk,— And fearful was the sudden light, And fearful was the dark. Then fell a deep and deathlike hush; And through the silence dead, "Good neighbours, shall we venture out?" A trembling farmer said— "I' the name o' God, shall we venture out?”— For the fearsome time seemed sped. Then up and spake the minister With white yet dauntless face: "Tis best to make an end of prayer, Trusting to Christ His grace; For it were better to die here Than in another place." So in the kirk at Widdecombe They finished evening pray'r; And then at last they ventured out Into the autumn air. Brightly the jagged moorland lay In sundown calm and fair. The devil came to Widdecombe With thunder and with flame,— He left behind a shattered kirk, A terror, and a fame; And this, the moorland voices tell, Is how the devil came.
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