Of the foul atmosphere; then hover o'er
A grove of chesnuts in Castilian shades,
Lured by the tinkling sound of the guitar
Tenderly sighing its fond serenade,
Hymning the praise of woman. There are eyes
In their dark languish soft and beautiful
As the black orbs of Yemen's antelopes,
Which pay the minstrel, flashing through the bars
Of the closed lattice. Should the perfumed buds
Of orange, and the fragrance-weeping lime,
Or sweeter still, the honied voice of love,
Draw the veiled beauty from her coy retreat,
I'll spread the foul contagion through the air,
Scatter the pestilence and sow the seeds
Of death in their embrace; the morning's dawn
Shall find them lifeless on a bed of flowers.
First Witch.
Enough! enough!
The cauldron boils. It is the witching hour;
The mighty form of Odin strides the hill!
