Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate?
Sullen echoes the portal bell,
It sounds like the whispering voice of fate,
It sounds like a funeral knell. _20
The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed,
And his frame was convulsed with fear,
When a voice was heard distinct and loud,
‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’
He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25
To Heaven he lifts his eye,
He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare,
Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.
Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints
That frown on the sacred walls, _30
His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints,
At the Abbot’s feet he falls.
And straight the father’s robe he kissed,
Who cried, ‘Grace dwells with thee,
The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35
At your benedicite.
‘Now haste within! the board is spread,
Keen blows the air, and cold,
The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed,
‘Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,— _40
‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,
You’ve journeyed many a mile,
To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,
That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.
‘Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45
Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,
Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,
Must I meet the wandering shade.
‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay,—
For hark! the echoing pile, _50
A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away,
O lead to the haunted aisle.’
The torches slowly move before,
The cross is raised on high,
A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55
But horror dimmed his eye—