"The kite may love the timid dove,
The hawk be the raven's guest;
But none shall dare that hawk to scare
From his dark and cloud-wreathed nest!
"Wail on, ye fond maidens,
Death lurks in the cloud;
The storm and the billow
Are weaving a shroud:
"There's a wail on the wind;
Ere its track on the main,
A light shall be quenched,
Ne'er to kindle again!"
"Surely I have heard that voice aforetime," thought De Poininges. It was
too peculiar for him to mistake. The woman had loitered in his path a
few hours before. It seemed her brain was somewhat disturbed: a wanderer
and an outcast in consequence, she had here taken shelter ofttimes for
the night. He determined to accost her; a feeling of deference prompted
him, a superstitious notion, arising from an idea then prevalent, that a
superior light was granted to those individuals in whom the light of
reason was extinct. He approached with caution, much to the terror and
distress of his companion.
"It is crazy Isabel," said he, "and the dark spirit is upon her!" But De
Poininges was not in a mood to feel scared with this intimation.
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