Then, forth from graves she takes her wicked way,
And thwarts the glancing lightnings as they play:
Where’er she breathes blue poisons round her spread,
The withering grass avows her fatal tread.
Oft in the grave the living has she laid,
And bid reviving bodies leave the dead:
Oft at the funeral pile she seeks her prey,
And bears the smoking ashes warm away;
Snatches some burning bone, or flaming brand,
And tears the torch from the sad father’s hand.