Festival

And the valleys are cold,

And a midnight profound

Blackly squats o'er the wold;

But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of

feastings unhallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,

There is fear in the night,

For the dead in their shrouds

Hail the sun's turning flight.

And chant wild in the woods as they dance

round a Yule-altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind

Sways the forest of oak,

Where the thick boughs entwined

By mad mistletoes choke,

For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark,

from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

And mayst thou to such deeds

Be an abbot and priest,

Singing cannibal greeds

At each devil-wrought feast,

And to all the incredulous world

shewing dimly the sign of the beast.