Classic Poem

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

" Methinks the demons of the air
Upon the turrets growl,
While down the empty winding stair
Their deepening murmurs roll.

" The glimmering 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 light
The lengthened shadow falls;
My grandsires, to my troubled sight,
Lower on me from these walls.

" Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth 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 breast
No morn shall ever cheer.

" The weary hind is now at rest,
Though 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 dared whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread?
I never feared 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 slow
Across my dusky hall!
Art thou a friend? — art thou a foe?
O answer to my call!"

Still nearer to the glimmering light
The towering figure strode,
Till full, and horrid to the sight,
The murthered Edward stood.

His hand a broken dagger swayed,
Like Time's dark threatening dart,
And pointed to the rugged blade
That quivered 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 sky
Before the coming snow;
And dark and dreadful was his eye,
And cloudy was his brow.

Pale Conrad shrunk, but grasped his sword;
Fear thrilled in every vein;
His quivering lip half-spoke its word;
He paused, and shrunk again.

" Pale bloody spectre, at this hour
Why dost thou haunt the night?
Has the deep gloomy vault no power
To keep thee from my sight?

" Why dost thou glare? Why dost thou wave
That fatal cursed knife?
The deed is done, and from the grave
Who can recall to life?

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

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

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

The form advanced with solemn step,
As though it meant to speak;
And thrice it moved its muttering lip,
But silence did not break.

Then sternly stalked with heavy pace,
Which shook the trembling wall,
And frowning turned its angry face,
And vanished from the hall.

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

Night fled, and through the windows 'gan
The early light to play;
But on a more unhappy man
Ne'er shone the dawning day.

The gladsome sun all nature cheers,
But cannot charm his cares;
Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears,
And murthered Edward glares.