Cast, the first bullet leaves the mold,—the lead
Mixed with three bullets that have hit their mark,
Burnt blood,—the wounded Sacramental Host,
Unswallowed and unhallowed, oozed when shot
Fixed to a riven pine.—Ere twelve o'clock,
When dwindling specters in their rotting shrouds
Quit musty tombs to mumble hollow woes
In Midnight's horrored ear, with never a cry,
Word or weak whisper, till that hour sound,
Must the free balls be cast; and these shall be