Page:The Family Legend.pdf/71

Rh

Evil, that soon will wrap your tower in flames, Your ditches fill with blood, and carrion birds Glut with the butcher'd corses of your slain.

Ay; evil, that doth make the hoary locks Of sighted men around their age-worn scalps Like quicken'd points of crackling flame to rise; Their teeth to grind, and strained eye-balls roll In fitful frenzy, at the horrid things, In terrible array before them raised.

The mermaid hath been heard upon our rocks: The fatal song of waves.

The northern deep Is heard with distant moanings from our coast, Uttering the dismal bodeful sounds of death.

The funeral lights have shone upon our heath, Marking in countless groupes the graves of thousands.