Spirits, that walk and wail to-night
Spirits , that walk and wail to-night,
— I feel, I feel that ye are near;
There is a mist upon my sight,
— There is a murmur in mine ear,
— — And a dark dark dread
— — Of the lonely dead,
— Creeps through the whispering atmosphere!
Ye hover o'er the hoary trees,
— And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;
Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas,
— And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air;
— — Ye gaze on the gate
— — Of earthly state,
— And the ban-dog shivers in silence there.
Come hither to me upon your cloud,
— And tell me of your bliss or pain,
And let me see your shadowy shroud,
— And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;
— — Where do ye dwell,
— — In heaven or hell?
— And why do ye wander on earth again?
Tell to me where and how ye died,
— Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,
On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,
— In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?
— — By bowl or blow,
— — From friend or foe,
— Hurried your angry souls away?
Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,
— Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;
But ye have blighted the pale grass,
— And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;
— — And guilt hath known
— — Your voiceless moan,
— And felt that the blood is unforgiven!
— I feel, I feel that ye are near;
There is a mist upon my sight,
— There is a murmur in mine ear,
— — And a dark dark dread
— — Of the lonely dead,
— Creeps through the whispering atmosphere!
Ye hover o'er the hoary trees,
— And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;
Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas,
— And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air;
— — Ye gaze on the gate
— — Of earthly state,
— And the ban-dog shivers in silence there.
Come hither to me upon your cloud,
— And tell me of your bliss or pain,
And let me see your shadowy shroud,
— And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;
— — Where do ye dwell,
— — In heaven or hell?
— And why do ye wander on earth again?
Tell to me where and how ye died,
— Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,
On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,
— In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?
— — By bowl or blow,
— — From friend or foe,
— Hurried your angry souls away?
Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,
— Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;
But ye have blighted the pale grass,
— And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;
— — And guilt hath known
— — Your voiceless moan,
— And felt that the blood is unforgiven!
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