301
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
I seem like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but me departed.
Moore.
Seest thou yon grey gleaming hall,
Where the deep elm-shadows fall?
Voices that have left the earth
Long ago,
Still are murmuring round its hearth,
Soft and low:
Ever there;—yet one alone
Hath the gift to hear their tone.
