THE WITCHES’ REVEL.
On with the dance! let the echoing earth
From the depth of its caverns resound to our mirth!
’Tis the blithe hour of revel! the moon’s hated light
Is quenched in the scowl of the tempest-winged night—
The spirits of death and of vengeance are nigh,
And their voice of wail moans to the darkened sky!
On with the dance! On the far battle field
Dimmed with gore is the glitter of helmet and shield;
The stream of fierce carnage still reeks on the air,
And the raven stoops earthward, his banquet to share!
Let him feast! the last breath from the vanquished is sped—
But our song shall exult o’er the festering dead!
On with the dance! Of the red lightning’s gleam
We will twine us a wreath that in triumph shall beam;
For the pale flowers of earth, in that garland to shine,
Of our victim’s torn limbs gasping trophies we’ll twine;
For the rich mantling wine cup of luxury to tell,
With their hearts’ drained life-blood our goblets shall swell!
Sisters—rejoice! on yon foam-crested wave
There are ships going down with the fair and the brave;
As the storm petrel flaps his wing fitfully there,
Ye may hear in the wild blast the curse and the prayer!
Ye may hear the last groan as the victim sweeps by—
Ye may catch the last gleam of the quivering eye!
Wake the loud revel! The roar of the sea,
And the drowning ones’ death-shriek, our music shall be!
While our beacon of vengeance illumines the night,
And the deep thunder peals from his mantle of light—
While the freed winds rejoice—and the fierce lightnings glance—
’Tis the blithe hour of revel! On—on with the dance!