SYMON. But does your honour think there's nae sic thing As witches raising deils up through a ring? Syne playing tricks--a thousand I could tell-- Cou'd ne'er be contriv'd on this side hell. SIR WILLIAM. Such as the devil's dancing in a moor, Amongst a few old women craz'd and poor, Who were rejoiced to see him frisk and lowp O'er braes and bogs with candles in * * * Appearing sometimes like a black-horn'd cow, Aft-times like Bawty, Badrans, or a sow; Then with his train through airy paths to glide, While they on carts, or clowns, or broomstaffs ride; Or in an egg-shell skim out o'er the main, To drink their leader's health in France or Spain; Then aft by night bumbaze hare-hearted fools, By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and stools. Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be, Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me." To glean from Cowper, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and the many other poets who have contributed to superstitious lore, would swell this portion of our work (_The Poets and Superstition_) to an undue proportion; and therefore we take leave of the poets, after giving extracts from Longfellow, whose talented effusions are not only read and appreciated in America and England, but over the whole world. FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND." LUCIFER. "Hasten! hasten! O ye spirits! From its station drag the ponderous Cross of iron, that to mock us Is uplifted high in air! VOICES. O, we cannot! For around it All the saints and guardian angels Throng in legions to protect it; They defeat us everywhere! THE BELLS. Laudo Deum verum! Plebem voco! Congrego clerum! LUCIFER. Lower! lower! Hover downward! Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging, to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower! VOICES. All thy thunders Here are harmless! For these bells have been anointed, And baptised with holy water! They defy our utmost power. THE BELLS. Defunctos ploro! Pestem fugo! Festa decoro! LUCIFER. Shake the casements! Break the painted Panes, that flame with gold and crimson; Scatter them like leaves of autumn, Swept away before the blast! VOICES. O, we cannot! The archangel Michael flames from every window, With the sword of fire that drove us Headlong out of heaven, aghast! THE BELLS. Funera plango! Fulgura frango! Sabbata pango!