Page:Poems Mitford.djvu/21

The dreaded spot the peasant flies,
 For in the torrent's swell,
He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries,
 Or the sad passing bell.

And in the raging of the storm,
 When the blue lightnings glare,
He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form,
 Swift flitting through the air.

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