LIKE a street there runs a valley, Known by name of Spirit-Hollow; Rugged cliffs on either side of't Rise to giddy elevation. On the widest, steepest slope there, Peers Uraca's daring cottage Like a watch-tow'r o'er the valley; Thither follow'd I Lascaro. With his mother held he counsel In mysterious signal-language, As to how great Atta Troll Might be best allur'd and vanquish'd. For we had explored his traces Carefully, and he no longer Could escape us. Now are number'd, Atta Troll, thy days on earth! As to whether old Uraca Was in truth a mighty witch Of distinction, as the people In the Pyrenees asserted, I'll not venture to determine; This much know I, her exterior Was suspicious, and suspicious Was her red eyes' constant dripping. Evil was her look, and squinting, And the poor cows ('tis reported) Whom she look'd on, in their udders Had the milk dried suddenly. It is even said that many Fatted swine and strongest oxen She had put to death, by merely Stroking with her wither'd hands. She at times for such offences Was exposed to accusations To the justice. But the latter Was a follower of Voltaire, Just a modern, shallow worldling, Void of faith and penetration, And the' accusers sceptically Were dismiss'd, wellnigh with insult. Publicly Uraca follow'd Quite an honest occupation, Namely, selling mountain-simples And stuff'd birds to those who sought them. Full her cottage was of suchlike Curiosities, and frightful Was the smell of fungi in it, Cuckoo-flow'rs and elderberries. There was quite a fine collection Of the vulture tribe display d there, With their wings extended fully, And their monstrous beaks projecting. Was't the strange plants' smell that mounted To my head and stupified me? Wondrous feelings stole across me, As I gazed upon those birds. They're perchance enchanted mortals, Who, by magic art o'erpower'd, To the wretched stuff'd condition Of poor birds have been converted. Fixedly they gaze upon me, Sadly, yet with much impatience; Often they appear to throw Tow'rd the witch shy glances also. But the latter, old Uraca, Close beside her son Lascaro Cowers in the chimney corner, Melting lead and casting bullets, -- Bullets that by fate are destined To destroy poor Atta Troll. How the flames with hasty motion Quiver o'er the witch's features! She incessantly keeps moving Her thin lips, but nothing says she; Mutters she the witches' blessing, That the casting be successful? Oft she chuckles and oft nods she To her son, but he continues Earnestly his occupation, And as silently as Death. Swelt'ring 'neath my awe-struck feelings, To the window went I, seeking For fresh air, and then look'd downward O'er the valley far below me. What I saw on that occasion 'Tween the hours of twelve and one, I will faithfully and neatly Tell you in the following chapters. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN by ROBERT JONES BURDETTE THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST by RUDYARD KIPLING ON THE SLAIN COLLEGIANS by HERMAN MELVILLE CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE by GEORGE ROBERT SIMS COUNTRY DOCTOR by DANA KNEELAND AKERS |