Of his echoing feet
Fell—like lead—on the ear—
As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier.
Athwart a swart and shadowy moor
The struggling knight was borne,
And far away, before him, gleamed
A light like the gray of morn;
While the old man, weak, forlorn,
And wan, and travel-worn,
Gazed, mad with deathly fear: