Instead of tending at all to pale,
Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright—
Remains the very reverse of white!
His heart is granite—his iron nerve
Feels no convulsive twitches;
And as to his foot, it does not swerve,
Tho' the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve
For parrots to Brocken Witches!
Nay, full in his very path he spies
The gleam of the Were Wolf's horrid eyes;