Part II

Loud roars the wind that shakes this wall;It is no common blast:Deep hollow sounds pass thro' my hall,O would the night were past!

"Methinks the dæmons of the airUpon the turrets growl;While down the empty winding stairTheir deep'ning murmurs roll.

"The glimm'ring fire cheers not the gloom:How blue its weakly ray!And like a taper in a tomb,But spreads the more dismay.

"Athwart its melancholy lightThe lengthen'd shadow falls:My grandsires, to my troubled sight,Low'r on me from these walls.

"Methinks yon angry warrior's headDoth in its casement frown,And darts a look, as if it said,Where hast thou laid my son?

"But will these fancies never cease?O, would the night were run!My troubled soul can find no peace,But with the morning sun.

"Vain hope! the guilty never rest;Dismay is always near:There is a midnight in the breastNo morn shall ever cheer.

"The weary hind is now at rest,Tho' lowly is his head,How sweetly lies the guiltless breast,Upon the hardest bed!

"The beggar, in his wretched haunt,May now a monarch be;Forget his woe, forget his want,For all can sleep but me.

"I've dar'd whate'er the boldest can,Then why this childish dread;I never fear'd a living man,And shall I fear the dead!

"No, whistling storms may shake my tower,And passing spirits scream:Their shadowy arms are void of power,And but a gloomy dream.

"But, lo! a form advancing slowAcross my dusky hall!Art thou a friend? art thou a foe?O, answer to my call!"

Still nearer to the glimm'ring lightThe tow'ring figure strode,Till full, and horrid to the sight,The murther'd Edward stood.

His hand a broken dagger sway'd,Like Time's dark threat'ning dart;And pointed to the rugged bladeThat quiver'd in his heart.

The blood still trickled from his head,And clotted was his hair,That on his manly shoulders spread;His mangled breast was bare.

His face was like the muddy skyBefore the coming snow;And dark and dreadful was his eye,And cloudy was his brow.

Pale Conrad shrunk, but grasp'd his sword;Fear thrill'd in ev'ry vein;His quiv'ring lip half-spoke its word;He paus'd, and shrunk again.

"Pale bloody spectre, at this hourWhy do'st thou haunt the night?Has the deep gloomy vault no powerTo keep thee from my sight?

"Why do'st thou glare? Why do'st thou waveThat fatal cursed knife?The deed is done, and from the graveWho can recall to life?

"Why rolls thine eye beneath thy brow,Dark as the midnight storm?What do'st thou want? O, let me know!But hide thy dreadful form.

"I'd give the life's blood from my heartTo wash my crime away:If thou'rt a spirit, O, depart!Nor haunt a wretch of clay.

"Say, do'st thou with the blessed dwell?Return and blessed be!Or com'st thou from the lowest hell?I am more curst than thee."

The form advanc'd with solemn step,As though it meant to speak;And thrice it mov'd its mutt'ring lip,But silence did not break.

Then sternly stalk'd with heavy pace,Which shook the trembling wall;And, frowning, turn'd its angry face,And vanish'd from the hall.

With fixed eyes, pale Conrad stood,That from their sockets swell;Back on his heart ran the cold blood,He shudder'd as he fell.

Night fled, and thro' the window 'ganThe early light to play;But on a more unhappy manNe'er shone the dawning day.

The gladsome sun all nature cheers,But cannot charm his cares:Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears,And murther'd Edward glares.