At last they reached a clearing in the wood,
Where, all at once, as 'mid the leaves they stood,
From Lobkyn's lips, loud, tremulous, and high,
There rose and swelled the owlet's shuddering cry.
Scarce on the air this dismal sound had died,
When they the Witch's hobbling form espied.
Beholding Robin, by the arm she caught him,
And to a place of rocks in haste she brought him;
And here, where bosky thickets burgeoned round,
She pointed to a chasm in the ground.
"Go down!" she hissed. "Go down, thou thing of clay,
Thou that art dead--into thy grave I say.
Since thou 'rt hanged, a dead man shalt thou be
Till from thy grave my spells shall summon thee--"
"My grave?" gasped Robin, blenching from her frown.
"Aye, Rogue!" she croaked. "Behold thy grave! Go down!"
So shiv'ring Robin, in most woeful plight,
Crept into gloom and vanished from their sight.
"O, Robin, Robin!" the old Witch softly cried,
"Alack, I'm here!" faint voice, below, replied.
"Thou dead," croaked she, "thou ghostly shade forlorn,
From charnel-vault sound now thy spectral horn,
Sound now thy rallying-note, then silent be
Till from thy mouldering tomb I summon thee!"
Now, on the stillness rose the ghostly sound
Of Robin's hunting horn that through the ground
Rang thin and high, unearthly-shrill and clear,
That thrilled the shivering woodland far and near,
And shuddering to silence, left behind
A whisper as of leaves in stealthy wind.
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