Evil birds of evil feather
Night and storm are met together,
Bitter gale and dripping wrack
Unforetold by almanack.
Come, Lucasta, bolt the door
While I grave upon the floor
Circle wide, and strew around
Pentacles to guard the ground
When the solemn fiends appear
In fulfilment of our prayer;
For though Cimon scorn thy sight
He shall sleep with thee to-night.
Wond’rest not how I, a crone
Whom no crippled lout would own
His paramour, have strength to fling
The loveless ’neath his true love’s wing.
The old are strong, the young are fair,
And thou, wan leaf, whom eager care
Spirits to this world-shop of mine,
Shalt for this hour see things divine.
Thou trustest that my ugliness
Shall dissipate thy soul’s distress.
Yea, though he loathe Lucasta bright,
Cimon shall sleep with her to-night.
See yon dun familiar toad
That infecteth my abode
With sage humours; stroke his head.
Now he sleeps as he were dead.
Yet must he hearken to the charm
Watching that we take no harm,
For spirits are fickle as men are
And called to help may come to war.
He wakes; now will I cease my croak
And read the grand words from this book
That he who recks not of our rite
May sleep with her who loves to-night.
Arise, ye majesties of flame
Exhorted by Jehovah’s name,
That all things to itself hath won,
The almighty Tetragrammaton.
Paymon, Belphegor, ye that err,
Tried spaniel-friends to Lucifer
And him whose red and gusty eyes
Captain the legions of the flies,
Attend with ceremonious hum,
Conjure the light o’ love to come
Infirm of step, infirm of sight,
To sleep with her who loves to-night.
Lucasta, see the lamp burns blue.
Spirits, have we this boon of you?
In the smoke their faces nod,
He shall come though he were God.
Shake not, girl, thy love they say
Conquers--Spirits frisk away;
By the powers that raised you, hence
To your depths. Ye have licence.
So, they are vanished. Why so frail?
Once more the wick gleams yellow pale,
The smokewreaths whirl to left and right,
Cimon shall sleep with thee to-night.
He comes; his hand is on the latch,
The owlet shrieks above the thatch,
Unbolt, unbolt--scatter the yew,
The tripod, and the cauldron’s brew.
Cimon, Lucasta, hails thee now,
The star of fate is on his brow,
His eyes grow moist, his bosom warms,
Receive him in thy weary arms,
Loveliest! By Thessalian might
He sleeps with her he loves to-night.
_ROBERT NICHOLS_
(_TRINITY_)