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O’er my Castle silence reigned,
Late the night and drear the hour,
When on the terrace I observed,
A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.–

Light the cloud as summer fog,
Which transient shuns the morning beam;
Fleeting as the cloud on bog,
That hangs or on the mountain stream.–

Horror seized my shuddering brain,
Horror dimmed my starting eye.
In vain I tried to speak,–In vain
My limbs essayed the spot to fly–

At last the thin and shadowy form,
With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,–
Its light robe floated on the storm,
Its head was bound with lambent flame.

In chilling voice drear as the breeze
Which sweeps along th’ autumnal ground,
Which wanders through the leafless trees,
Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.

‘Thou art mine and I am thine,
‘Till the sinking of the world,
I am thine and thou art mine,
‘Till in ruin death is hurled–

‘Strong the power and dire the fate,
Which drags me from the depths of Hell,
Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate,
Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell,

‘Haply I might ne’er have shrank
From flames that rack the guilty dead,
Haply I might ne’er have sank
On pleasure’s flowery, thorny bed–

–‘But stay! no more I dare disclose,
Of the tale I wish to tell,
On Earth relentless were my woes,
But fiercer are my pangs in Hell–

‘Now I claim thee as my love,
Lay aside all chilling fear,
My affection will I prove,
Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!

‘For thou art mine, and I am thine,
‘Till the dreaded judgement day,
I am thine, and thou art mine–
Night is past–I must away.’

Still I gazed, and still the form
Pressed upon my aching sight,
Still I braved the howling storm,
When the ghost dissolved in night.–

Restless, sleepless fled the night,
Sleepless as a sick man’s bed,
When he sighs for morning light,
When he turns his aching head,–

Slow and painful passed the day.
Melancholy seized my brain,
Lingering fled the hours away,
Lingering to a wretch in pain.–

At last came night, ah! horrid hour,
Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead,
When demons ride the clouds that lower,
–The phantom sat upon my bed.

In hollow voice, low as the sound
Which in some charnel makes its moan,
What floats along the burying ground,
The phantom claimed me as her own.

Her chilling finger on my head,
With coldest touch congealed my soul–
Cold as the finger of the dead,
Or damps which round a tombstone roll–

Months are passed in lingering round,
Every night the spectre comes,
With thrilling step it shakes the ground,
With thrilling step it round me roams–

Stranger! I have told to thee,
All the tale I have to tell–
Stranger! canst thou tell to me,
How to ‘scape the powers of Hell?–

STRANGER:
Warrior! I can ease thy woes,
Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me–
Warrior! I can all disclose,
Follow, follow, follow me.

Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing,
Its mantle stretches o’er the sky,
Yet the midnight ravens sing,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’

At last they saw a river clear,
That crossed the heathy path they trod,
The Stranger’s look was wild and drear,
The firm Earth shook beneath his nod–

He raised a wand above his head,
He traced a circle on the plain,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead with silent footsteps came.

A burning brilliance on his head,
Flaming filled the stormy air,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead in motley crowd were there.–