Like the whining voice of the hags that ride

To the witches' Sabboth,—crooned and cried.

Stared and whispered and smiled and wept Page [49]
Romaunt of the Oak

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And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloud,

The storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.

When she heard the dead man rattle and groan

As the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,