Thus groaned your generations: till the time
Grew ripe, and lightning had revealed, belike,—
Through crevice peeped into by curious fear,—
Some object even fear could recognize
I' the place of spectres; on the illumined wall,
To wit, some nook, tradition talks about,
Narrow and short, a corpse's length, no more:
And by it, in the due receptacle,
The little rude brown lamp of earthenware,
The cruse, was meant for flowers, but now held blood,