"The glimm'ring fire cheers not the gloom:
How blue its weakly ray!
And like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.
"Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthen'd shadow falls:
My grandsires, to my troubled sight,
Low'r on me from these walls.
"Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth in its casement frown,
And darts a look, as if it said,
Where hast thou laid my son?
"But will these fancies never cease?
O, would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace,
But with the morning sun.
"Vain hope! the guilty never rest;
Dismay is always near:
There is a midnight in the breast
No morn shall ever cheer.
"The weary hind is now at rest,
Tho' lowly is his head,
How sweetly lies the guiltless breast,
Upon the hardest bed!
"The beggar, in his wretched haunt,
May now a monarch be;
Forget his woe, forget his want,
For all can sleep but me.
"I've dar'd whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread;
I never fear'd a living man,
And shall I fear the dead!
"No, whistling storms may shake my tower,
And passing spirits scream:
Their shadowy arms are void of power,
And but a gloomy dream.
"But, lo! a form advancing slow
Across my dusky hall!
Art thou a friend? art thou a foe?
O, answer to my call!"