Classic Poem

The morn is blushing thro' the orient gates,
The witch is, with the hound, the castle nigh,
The sleepless youth his wretched sentence waits,
He slept not—but prepar'd his soul to die.
Yet once again he sought the knight, and pour'd
His prayer for mercy—“Hear the wretched one;
Give not thy servant to the witch, kind lord!
From life and sunshine banish not thy John.”

'Twas vain—the greyhound's bark had reach'd that ear,
Where voice of human sorrow idly fell:
He hugg'd the witch, he hugg'd his greyhound dear,
And order'd a rejoicing festival.
And to the witch, when beam'd the evening star,
He gave his servant fetter'd like a slave;
Two dragons, harness'd to the death-black car,
Bore witch and victim to her mountain-cave.