miscellaneous poems.
137
For 'neath that leafless trunk hath lain
The mould'ring corse, of one long slain;
(Oh, God! can such things be?)
The rider spurred his courser on;
"Oh! for the blessed beam of morn
To light me cheerily!"
The mould'ring corse, of one long slain;
(Oh, God! can such things be?)
The rider spurred his courser on;
"Oh! for the blessed beam of morn
To light me cheerily!"
On, on the madden'd courser fled,
His snorting nostrils speak his dread—
With visage ghastly pale
The rider spurred;—"My gallant steed
Why faulter at thy master's need?
Why tremble thus, and quail?
His snorting nostrils speak his dread—
With visage ghastly pale
The rider spurred;—"My gallant steed
Why faulter at thy master's need?
Why tremble thus, and quail?
Avaunt, ye spirits of the slain.
My horn shall gaily sound again,
To bid yon loiterers haste."
He said; and wound a trembling blast—
Started the horse, as, moaning, pass'd,
A shadow o'er the waste.
My horn shall gaily sound again,
To bid yon loiterers haste."
He said; and wound a trembling blast—
Started the horse, as, moaning, pass'd,
A shadow o'er the waste.
"Tis he!"—the trembling murderer cries,
"Oh, God!—I see his pleading eyes—
That wide and bleeding gash:—
"Oh, God!—I see his pleading eyes—
That wide and bleeding gash:—
