The maiden listening in the moonlight grove,
The mother smiling in her infant’s bower;
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move,
Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour
Borne, like Loretto’s chapel, through the air
To the green land I sing, then wake, you’ll find them there.
XII.
****** ******
XIII.
They burnt their last witch in Connecticut
About a century and a half ago;
They made a school-house of her forfeit hut,
And gave a pitying sweet-brier leave to grow
Above her thankless ashes; and they put
A certified description of the show
Between two weeping-willows, craped with black,
On the last page of that year’s almanac.
XIV.
Some warning and well-meant remarks were made
Upon the subject by the weekly printers;
The people murmured at the taxes laid
To pay for jurymen and pitch-pine splinters,
And the sad story made the rose-leaf fade
Upon young listeners’ cheeks for several winters,
