While, as he stalks thro’ groaning oaks,
At intervals the old deer croaks:
And the lean sow with paps drawn dry
O’er rustling leaves trots whining by.—
Then posts across the blasted plain,
Born on the wild storm, Witchcraft’s train,
Aghast with guilt, and shrunk with age,
And yelling with demoniack rage!—
With eyes turn’d back malign and wide
See blood-stain’d Murder silent stride,