That glows with the witches’ midnight toil,

No deeps of the forest-close resound

With the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.

No planets chill the warm heart’s blood

With the mockery of a demon fire,

No vapors veil with a sickly shroud

The moss-grown top of the old church spire,⁠—

For he who stood in that dreadful watch

On the gray rampart of Elsinore

Told how they ceased from their revel catch