by Edmund Gosse.
Originally published in The Witching Time: Tales for the Year's End edited by Henry Norman. (D. Appleton & Co.; 1887).
I.
At dead of night in Cranley Street,
A silent crowd of yokels meet;
In marshaled line they form, and stand
With candles lighted in their hand;
Then up the lane they turn to go:
Down the calm meads no breezes blow,
The flame scarce wavers to and fro—
The flame to scare the witches.
II.
And now, through smoke of flaring dips,
The stars are seen, like ghostly ships,
With all sails set in heaven's dark sea;
And ghostly white from the elder-tree
The clusters hang; but still there flows
No honey from the parched-up rose,
No breath from the honey-suckle blows—
All's blighted by the witches.
III.
Through leaden air the young men pass,
Their shoes are dry in the long grass;
No living creature round them stirs,
No weasel squeaks, no fern-owl whirrs;
Through the dull night with might and main—
Each nerve and sinew on the strain—
They bear their candles up the lane
To daunt the midnight witches.
IV.
But one by one their flames burn blue,
And all but three, then all but two,
By unseen lips at gateways blown,
Go out, till one is left alone;
One trembling flame that seems to shrink
Within its wall of fingers pink,
And now would rise and now would sink,
Sole help against the witches.
V.
Still guarding this one light they rise,
Till, darker than the dark blue skies,
A starless mass above them burst—
The windmill upon Coneyhurst;
And through the fern and furze they hear,
With aching nerve of the tingling ear,
A sound that curdles them with fear—
The rustling of the witches.
VI.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
As by one kindred aim possessed,
Four singing shadows rush together
Toward the old gibbet in the heather;
One passes by the lads and blows
Their sole light vainly as she goes;
The blood within their bodies froze
At the meeting of the witches.
VII.
Now round the gallows in a ring
They dance, and as they dance, they sing.
But look! for by the saints alive!
They were but four, they now are five;
And mid their shadowy garments gray
A taller, blacker form than they
Now crouches down, now leaps away!
The devil's with the witches!
VIII.
The candle-flame burns low and sick,
And wastes upon the slanted wick;
The lad who holds it's like to die,
With beating heart and palsied eye;
One minute more, one minute more,
And the whole country-side's given o'er
To demons from the night's black shore
And malice-working witches!
IX.
But still his English heart is stout,
And, seeing the flame is well-nigh out,
With suck'd breath, as one plays the flute,
He darts up to the gibbet's root;
And on the bed that no dew wets
Of moss and whortle-leaves, he sets
His candle-end, and straight forgets
His fear of ghastly witches.
X.
In time! in time! with scream and start,
The black descends, the gray depart;
A sulphurous smell invades the brain,
But passes in a whiff of rain.
The morning straight begins to break;
The cocks in Canvil farmstead wake;
The numb world breathes, all for the sake
Of midnight-harrying witches.
XI.
Now back to town the yokels pass;
Sweet dew falls fresh upon the grass;
From elms within the coppice-pale
Shouts nightingale to nightingale;
The web of stars fades out of sight,
In heavenly odor sinks the night,
The spell is gone, the air is light,
Set free from weight of witches.
XII.
Nor will they come again this year,
To blast our harvest in the ear,
Or kill our cattle, or, passing by,
Breathe on our babes and make them die
Men who can dare at night to bring
Clear candle-light to the shameful thing,
And set flame down in the ghastly ring,
Need fear no more from witches.