Calling mortal aid in vain,
And with gaunt and spectral fingers,
Feebly knocks upon the pane.
Love I well to hear it wailing,
And I listen, pensively;
Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,
Mournfully it wakes in me.
Such a night did Edna leave us,
When she with Lord Ronald fled;
Better, ere she thus had grieved us,