To and fro, as the night-winds blow,
The carcass of the assassin swings;
And there alone, on the raven-stone[2],
The raven flaps his dusky wings.

The fetters creak--and his ebon beak
Croaks to the close of the hollow sound;
And this is the tune by the light of the moon
To which the witches dance their round--
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily,
Merrily, speeds the ball:
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds,
Flock to the witches' carnival.

_Abbot._ I fear thee not--hence--hence--
Avaunt thee, evil one!--help, ho! without there!

_Man._ Convey this man to the Shreckhorn--to its peak--
To its extremest peak--watch with him there
From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven.
But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks,
Set him down safe in his cell--away with him!

_Ash._ Had I not better bring his brethren too,
Convent and all, to bear him company?

_Man._ No, this will serve for the present. Take him up.

_Ash._ Come, friar! now an exorcism or two,