The charm is wound: I see an aged form,
In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;
O’er the careering surge he waves his wand:
Upon the black rock bursts the bidden storm.
Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay,
Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger, come away.
Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale?
Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath?
Hark! hark! is the deed done? the deed of death!
The deed is done—hail, king of Scotland, hail!