Page:Lancashire Legends, Traditions, Pageants, Sports, Etc., with an Appendix Containing a Rare Tract.djvu/68



'O mother dear! what bodes that speech
 * From yonder iron tongue?'

'Tis but the rude, rude blast, my love,
 * That idle bell hath swung.'

"Upon the rattling casement still
 * The beating rain fell fast,

"When creeping fingers, wandering thrice,
 * Across that window passed.

'O mother dear! what means that sound
 * Upon the lattice nigh?'

'Tis but the cold, cold arrowy sleet,
 * That hurtles in the sky.'

The blast was still—a pause more dread
 * Ne'er terror felt—when, lo!

An armed footstep on the stair
 * Clanked heavily and slow.

Up flew the latch and tirling pin;
 * Wide swung the grated door;

Then came a solemn, stately tread
 * Upon the quaking floor!

A shudder through the building ran,
 * A chill and icy blast;

A moan, as tho' in agony
 * Some viewless spirit passed.

'O mother dear, my heart is froze,
 * My limbs are stark and cold:'

Her mother spake not, for again
 * That turret-bell hath tolled.

Three days passed by; at eventide
 * There came an aged man;

He bent him low before the dame,
 * His wrinkled cheek was wan,

'Now speak, thou evil messenger,
 * Thy biddings show to me.'

That aged man nor look vouchsafed,
 * Nor ever a word spake he.