And the hoot-owl called; and the were-wolf snarled;
And a voice, in the boughs of the oak-tree gnarled,--
Like the whining rush of the hags that ride
To the witches' sabboth,--crooned and cried.
And wrapped in his mantle of wind and cloud
The storm-fiend stalked through the forest loud.
When she heard the dead man rattle and groan
As the oak was bent and its leaves were blown,
And the lightning vanished and shimmered his mail,
Through the swirling sweep of the rain and hail,
She seemed to hear him, who seemed to call,--
"Come hither, Maurine, the wild leaves fall!
"The wild leaves rustle, the wild leaves flee;
Come hither, Maurine, to the hollow tree!
"To the trysting tree, to the tree once green;
Come hither, Maurine! come hither, Maurine!" ...
They found her closed in his armored arms--
Had he claimed his bride on that night of storms?
_Morgan le
Fay_
In dim samite was she bedight,
And on her hair a hoop of gold,
Like fox-fire in the tawn moonlight,
Was glimmering cold.
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