When the owlet shrill called from the hill,
And all men were asleep,
Slow did they fare by the broken stair,
And down to the dungeon deep.
There was nought to see in the doleful vault
Save the mould and the mildew green—
But the hair stood up on Bothwell’s head
As he and the witch went in.
Oh, deep and still was the secret cell—
There was never a sound to hear
Save the echo aloof in the riven roof—
But his knees were loosed for fear.
Oh, thrice she bent, and thrice she bowed,
As she muttered the secret spell—
The grisly lore they learned of yore
That loosens the fiends of hell.
She rose on her feet, and she stood upright,
And high she reared her head;
Oh, her face was wan to look upon
As the face of one that’s dead.
And like the dead, in the torchlight red,
Her eyes were bleared and dim,
And her lips were still, yet ghostly shrill
The voice came forth from them.
Like an echo aloof in the riven roof
The eldritch voice made moan—
“Alas for my sleep in the dust so deep!
Alas for the sealing stone!”
“Now heed, now hark, thou spirit dark,
And look thou tell me true.
Say, is it meet, for a lady sweet,
A philtre fine to brew?”
“No philtre fine she needs o’ mine
To turn her heart to thee—
Thou hast set the spell on her thysel
With the glint o’ thy bold black e’e!”
“Dost see her dight in bridal white,
In satin of shimmering fold?
Does she go like a queen, amid the sheen
Of gems, and the red, red gold?”