Page:Halleck.djvu/94

74 The maiden listening in the moonlight grove,
 * The mother smiling in her infant’s bower;

Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move,
 * Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour

Borne, like Loretto’s chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you’ll find them there.

They burnt their last witch in
 * About a century and a half ago;

They made a school-house of her forfeit hut,
 * And gave a pitying sweet-brier leave to grow

Above her thankless ashes; and they put
 * A certified description of the show

Between two weeping-willows, craped with black, On the last page of that year’s almanac.

Some warning and well-meant remarks were made
 * Upon the subject by the weekly printers;

The people murmured at the taxes laid
 * To pay for jurymen and pitch-pine splinters,

And the sad story made the rose-leaf fade
 * Upon young listeners’ cheeks for several winters,