A rustling 'mid the underbrush they heard
Where, in the gloom about them, dim things stirred--
Vague, stealing shapes that softly nearer drew,
Till from the tree-gloom crept a ragged crew,
Wild men and fierce, a threatening, grimly herd,
Who stood like shadows, speaking not a word;
And the pale moon in fitful flashes played
On sword and headpiece, pike and broad axe-blade.
While the old hag, o'er witch-fire crouching low,
Puffed at the charcoal till it was aglow;
Then hobbling round and round her crackling fire,
She thus began her incantations dire:
"Come ye long-dead,
Ye spirits dread,
Ye things of quaking fear,
Ye poor, lost souls,
Ye ghosts, ye ghouls,
Haxwiggin bids ye here!
By one by two, by two by three,
Spirits of Night, I summon ye,
By three by four, by four by five,
Come ye now dead that were alive,
Come now I bid ye
From grave-clods rid ye,
Come!
From South and North,
I bid ye forth,
From East, from West,
At my behest--
Come!
Come great, come small,
Come one, come all,
Heed ye my call,
List to my call, I say,
From pitchy gloom
Of mouldered tomb
Here find ye room
For sport and holiday.
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