Ninth Witch.
'Tis glorious sport!
Oh! who would sit beside the fire and spin,
When they can thread the ocean's maze, or dance
Upon a star-beam? My fond mother weeps,
And looks upon me with beseeching eyes,
Whene'er she hears me murmur my witch songs,
And Leopold has brought me top-knots gay
From Strasburgh and from Mentz. They've trimmed the green,
And planted flowers, and coaxed the little birds
To feed upon the window sill—they hope
To make me love these simple things. Old Paul,
The village pastor shakes his silvery locks,
Shudders and sighs, to see me reckless turn
From holy shrines; they dread to know the truth,
Yet deeply fear. They've barred the outward door
And nailed a horse-shoe o'er the threshold, strewed
The chamber with fresh rosemary; but I
Repeated thrice the magic spell, and snapped
