III.
Ye visions that before me roll,
That freeze my blood, that shake my soul!
Are ye the phantoms of a dream?
Pale spectres! are ye what ye seem?
They glide more near—
Their forms unfold!
Fix'd are their eyes, on me they bend—
Their glaring look is cold!
And hark!—I hear
Sounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend.