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The mildew hangs upon the corn; the earth
Teems with unwholesome damps; whole flocks of sheep
Are smitten with disease; and she has wrought
These deadly plagues. Beneath the waning moon
I saw her gather poisonous herbs, and heard
The spells she inly muttered—off with her!
Croud.
Aye to the river straight—the witch shall swim.
Ellinor.
Nay, nay good people, hold your eager hands
The poor old dame is innocent—indeed
She cannot harm you if she would—so old,
So pressed by want—Oh! if she had the power
To work forbidden spells, she would not starve
Upon a morsel wrung from the cold hand
Of most reluctant charity. Then pause,
Nor for an idle prejudice commit
This cruel deed.
