Though first its shrouded glories shine,

Spurns at the gloom each hour more faint,

And purer drinks the beam divine.

Till wrapt in rays from shadow free,

The noon-tide of eternity.

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—