62
LEMOINE.
Then doth she silent stand,
Lifting her slender hand,
On which gleams the ring I tore from his hand at Bay- wood;
The tiny opal hearts
Are broken in two parts,
And where the ruby burned there hangeth a drop of blood.
Lifting her slender hand,
On which gleams the ring I tore from his hand at Bay- wood;
The tiny opal hearts
Are broken in two parts,
And where the ruby burned there hangeth a drop of blood.
Then with my burning cheek,
Raising my head, I speak,
"Lemoine, Lemoine, my lost! Oh, speak to me once, I pray!"
But no word will she deign,
Adown the shining lane,
The long and lustrous lane of the moonlight she glides away.
Raising my head, I speak,
"Lemoine, Lemoine, my lost! Oh, speak to me once, I pray!"
But no word will she deign,
Adown the shining lane,
The long and lustrous lane of the moonlight she glides away.
I fancy oft a stir,
Of wings seem following her,
Trailing a terrible gloom along the oaken floor,
As she walks to and fro;
Louder the strange sounds grow
To a nameless, dreadful horror, that floods the chamber o'er.
Of wings seem following her,
Trailing a terrible gloom along the oaken floor,
As she walks to and fro;
Louder the strange sounds grow
To a nameless, dreadful horror, that floods the chamber o'er.
And then I raise my head
From terror-haunted bed,
From terror-haunted bed,
