Feathers of the homed owl,
Daw, pie, and other fatal fowl.
Fruit from fig-tree never sown,
Seed from cypress never grown.
All within the mess I cast,
Stir the caldron — stir it fast!
MALISON.
In his likeness it is moulded,
In his vestments ’tis enfolded.
Ye may know it, as I show it!
In the breast sharp pins I stick,
And I drive them to the quick.
They are in — they are in —
And the wretch’s pangs begin.
Now his heart
Feels the smart
Through his marrow,
Sharp as arrow,
Torments quiver
He shall shiver,
He shall burn,
He shall toss, and he shall turn,
Unavailingly.
Aches shall rack him
Cramps attack him;
He shall wail,
Strength shall fail,
Till he die
Miserably!
THIRD WITCH.
Over mountain, over valley, over woodland, over waste,
On our gallant broomsticks riding, we have come with frantic haste,
And the reason of our coming, as ye wot well, is to see
Who this night, as new-made witch, to our ranks shall added be.
SECOND WIZARD.
Beat the water, Demdike’s daughter!
Till the tempest gather o’er us;
Till the thunder strike with wonder
And the lightnings flash before us!
Beat the water, Demdike’s daughter!
Ruin seize our foes, and slaughter!
ELIZABETH DEVICE.
Mount, water, to the skies!
Bid the sudden storm arise.
Bid the pitchy clouds advance,
Bid the forked lightnings glance,
Bid the angry thunder growl,
Bid the wild wind fiercely howl!
Bid the tempest come amain,
Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain!
CHORDS.
Beat the water, Demdike’s daughter!
See the tempest gathers o’er us;
Lightning flashes — thunder crashes,
Wild winds sing in lusty chorus!
MOTHER CHATTOX.
Here is juice of poppy bruised,
With black hellebore infused;
Here is mandrake’s bleeding root,
Mix’d with moonshade’s deadly fruit;
Viper’s bag, with venom fill’d,
Taken ere the beast was kill’d;
Adder’s skin, and raven’s feather,
With shell of beetle blent together;
Dragonwort and barbatus,
Hemlock black and poisonous;
Horn of hart, and storax red,
Lapwing’s blood, at midnight shed.
In the heated pan they burn,
And to pungent vapours turn,
By this strong suffumigation,
By this potent invocation,
Spirits! I compel you here!
All who list my call appear!
INVOCATION.
White-robed brethren, who of old,
Nightly paced you cloisters cold,
Sleeping now beneath the mould!
I bid ye rise.
Abbots! by the weakling fear’d,
By the credulous revered,
Who this mighty fabric rear’d!
I bid ye rise!
And thou last and guilty one!
By thy lust of power undone,
Whom in death thy fellows shun!
I bid thee come!
And thou, fair one, who disdain’d
To keep the vows thy lips had feign’d;
And thy snowy garments stain’d!
I bid thee come!
MRS. NUTTER.
Thy aid I seek, infernal Power!
Be thy word sent to Malkin Tower,
That the beldame old may know
Where I will thou’dst have her go —
What I will, thou’dst have her do!
EVIL SPIRIT.
Thou who seek’st the Demon’s aid,
Know’st the price that must be paid.
MRS. NUTTER.
Spirit, grant the aid I crave,
And that thou wishest thou shalt have.
Another worshipper is won,
Thine to be when all is done.
EVIL SPIRIT.
Enough, proud witch, I am content.
To Malkin Tower the word is sent,
Forth to her task the beldame goes,
And where she points the streamlet flows;
Its customary bed forsaking,
Another distant channel making.
Round about like elfets tripping,
Stock and stone, and tree are skipping;
Halting where she plants her staff,
With a wild exulting laugh.
Ho! ho! ’tis a merry sight,
Thou hast given the hag to-night.
Lo! the sheepfold, and the herd,
To another site are stirr’d!
And the rugged limestone quarry,
Where ’twas digg’d may no more tarry;
While the goblin-haunted dingle,
With another dell must mingle.
Pendle Moor is in commotion,
Like the billows of the ocean,
When the winds are o’er it ranging,
Heaving, falling, bursting, changing,
Ho! ho! ’tis a merry sight,
Thou hast given the hag to night.
Lo! the moss-pool sudden flies,
In another spot to rise;
And the scanty-grown plantation
Finds another situation,
And a more congenial soil,
Without needing woodman’s toil.
Now the warren moves — and see!
How the burrowing rabbits flee,
Hither, thither till they find it,
With another brake behind it.
Ho! ho! ’tis a merry sight,
Thou hast given the hag to-night.
Lo! new lines the witch is tracing,
Every well-known mark effacing,
Elsewhere, other bounds erecting,
So the old there’s no detecting.
Ho! ho! ’tis a pastime quite,
Thou hast given the hag to-night.
The hind at eve, who wander’d o’er
The dreary waste of Pendle Moor,
Shall wake at dawn, and in surprise,
Doubt the strange sight that meets his
The pathway leading to his hut
Winds differently — the gate is shut.
The ruin on the right that stood,
Lies on the left, and nigh the wood;
The paddock fenced with wall of stone,
Well-stock’d with kine, a mile hath flown,
The sheepfold and the herd are gone.
Through channels new the brooklet rushes,
Its ancient course conceal’d by bushes.
Where the hollow was a mound
Rises from the upheaved ground.
Doubting, shouting with surprise,
How the fool stares, and rubs his eyes!
All so changed, the simple elf
Fancies he is changed himself!
Ho! ho! ’tis a merry sight
The hag shall have when dawns the light.
But see! she halts and waves her hand,
All is done as thou hast plann’d.
THE MANDRAKE.
HOMERUS.
THE mandrake grows ‘neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves;
And though all around it be bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.
Marana
tha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs,
Just where the creaking carease swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is a vain imagining,
Maranatha — Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in plant or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Bread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the flower incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth ’tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore,
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.
Maranatha — Anathema!
Bread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake’s expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside,
With penitent prayers — but all have died.
Jem! save us by night and by day!
From the terrible death of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
EPHIALTES.
I.
I RIDE alone — I ride by night
Through the moonless air on a courser white!
Over the dreaming earth I fly,
Here and there — at my phantasy!
My frame is withered, my visage old,
My locks are frore, and my bones ice-cold.
The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,
The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.
For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,
And the freezing current forsakes his veins!
Vainly for pity the wretch may sue —
Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!
To his couch I flit —
On his breast I sit —
Astride! astride! astride!
And one charm alone
(A hollow stone!)
Can scare me from his side!
II.
A thousand antic shapes I take;
The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.
The miser dreams of a bag of gold,
Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.
The drunkard groans ‘neath a cask of wine;
The reveller swelts ‘neath a weighty chine.
The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,
To flee! — but his feet to the ground are nailed.
The goatherd dreams of the mountain-tops,
And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.
The murderer feels at his throat a knife,
And gasps, as his victim gasp’d for life!
The thief recoils from the scorching brand;
The mariner drowns in sight of land!
— Thus sinful man have I power to fray,
Torture and rack — but not to slay!
But ever the couch of purity,
With shuddering glance I hurry by.
Then mount! away!
To horse! I say,
To horse! astride! astride!
The fire-drake shoots —
The screech-owl hoots —
As through the air I glide!
THE CORPSE-CANDLE.
Lambere flamma Ĭƿ et circum funera pasci.
I.
THROUGH the midnight gloom did a pale blue light
To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight: —
Thrice it floated those old walls round —
Thrice it paused — till the grave it found.
Over the grass-green sod it glanced,
Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,
Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering —
Never was seen so gay a thing!
Never was seen so blithe a sight
As the midnight dance of that pale blue light;
II.
Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?
Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?
Is it the soul, released from clay,
Over the earth that takes its way,
And tarries a moment in mirth and glee
Where the corse it hath quitted interr’d shall be?
Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,
That taketh in mortal mischance delight,
And marketh the road the coffin shall go,
And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?
Ask him who can answer these questions aright;
I know not the cause of that pale blue light!
THE HAND OF GLORY.
FROM the corse that hangs on the roadside tree
(A murderer’s corse it needs must be),
Sever the right hand carefully: —
Sever the hand that the deed hath done,
Ere the flesh that clings to the bones be gone;
In its dry veins must blood be none.
Those ghastly fingers white and cold,
Within a winding-sheet enfold;
Count the mystic count of seven:
Name the Governors of heaven.
Then in earthen vessel place them,
And with dragon-wort encase them,
Bleach them in the noonday sun,
Till the marrow melt and run,
Till the flesh is pale and wan,
As a moon-ensilvered cloud,
As an unpolluted shroud. —
Next within their chill embrace
The dead man’s awful candle place;
Of murderer’s fat must that candle be
(You may scoop it beneath the, roadside tree),
Of wax, and of Lapland sisame.
Its wick must be twisted of hair of the dead,
By the crow and her brood on the wild waste shed.
Wherever that terrible light shall bum
Vainly the sleeper may toss and turn;
His leaden lids shall he ne’er unclose
So long as the magical taper glows.
Life and treasure shall he command
Who knoweth the charm of the Glorious Hand!
But of black cat’s gall let him aye have care,
And of screech-owl’s venomous blood beware!
THE CARERION CROW.
I.
THE Carrion Crow is a sexton bold,
He raketh the dead from out of the mould;
He delveth the ground like a miser old,
Stealthily hiding his store of gold. Caw! Caw!
The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,
Silky and sleek like a priest’s to his back;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way —
The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.
Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!
Dig! Dig! in the ground below!
II.
The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,
With savory pickings he crammeth his craw;
Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim,
It never can hang too long for him! Caw! Cato!
The Carrion Crow smell eth powder, ’tis said,
Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead;
No jester, or mime, hath more marvellous wit,
For, wherever he lighteth, he maketh a hit!
Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!
Dig! Dig! in the ground below!
THE HEADSMAN’S AXE.
I.
THE axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,
As it touched the neck, off went the head!
Whir — whir — whir — whir!
II.
Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,
Quietly waiting the fatal shock;
The axe it severed it right in twain,
And so quick — so true — that she felt no pain!
Whir — whir — whir — whir
III.
Salisbury’s Countess, she would not die
As a proud dame should — decorously.
Lifting my axe, I split her skull,
And the edge for a month it was notched and dull.
Whir — whir — whir — whir!
IV.
Queen Catherine Howard gave me a fee, —
A chain of gold — to die easily:
And her costly present she did not rue,
For I touched her head and away it flew!
Whir — whir — whir — whir!
Humorous Ballads
THE CHRONICLE OF GARGANTUA: SHOWING HOW HE TOOK AWAY THE GREAT BELLS OF NOTRE-DAME
I.
GRANDGOUSIER was a toper boon, as Rabelais will tell ye,
Who, once upon a time, got drunk with his old wife Gargamelly:
Right royally the bout began (no queen was more punctilious
Than Gargamelle) on chitterlings, botargos, godebillios!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
II.
They licked their lips, they cut their quips — a flask then each selected; —
‘And with good Greek, as satin sleek, their gullets they humected.
“Gaudebillaux sont grasses trippes de coir aux. Coiraux sont bceufz
engresses à la criche, et prés guimaulx. Prés guimaulx sont qui portent
herbe deux foys l’an.” — RABELAIS.
Rang stave and jest, the task they pressed — but ere away the wine went,
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 845
