Lady Clarisse.
87
Why fling away the scarlet rose, tied with a golden thread;Its beauty burned to ashes—all scentless—withered—dead,—Like the blaze of passion quickly lighted, and as quickly fled?
But hark! another step is following up the turret stair—A heavy tread, a clanking sword, which seems to say "Beware!"I heard it on the battlement, it rent the startled air!And now 'tis said a spectral lady walks for ever there!
