What did she fear? O! dreadful thought!
The Moon’s wan lustre, streaming;
The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound,
The lonely Bittern—shrieking round
The roof,—with pale light gleaming.
And often, when the wintry wind
Loud whistled o’er their dwelling;
They sat beside their faggot fire
While Zorietto’s aged Sire
A dismal Tale was telling.