Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 102.djvu/162

148 The lady pushes her pillow aside,

Upsprings—as light as a fawn from its lair—

Her bodice's strings she has loosely tied—

Pressed under her cap her pròfuse hair—

Then gently the casement, that none may hear,

She opes—and thro' it, in hootings drear,

Bursts the screech of an owl, as if sent to scare.

Dark the night—and mournful the blast—

The banners wave over the creaking door.

Then in long procession the household passed,

With lanterns in rows, and one before—

The porter nods, as if he were dreaming—

The huntsman's wick is spluttering and streaming,

And with mouth, like an ogre, yawns the Moor.

Thro' the court-yard winds the long array;

And proud in her office, is seen to go,

A guard to the maids, the abigail grey.

"But what is that skurrying to and fro?"—

"Shall I thro' the parted curtain be seen?"

All eyes are strained towards the crimson screen.—

Then slowly they turn their heads away.

"Do I dream? What figure is seen to pass,

And o'er the terrace in mockery to bend?

Woe's me! it looks as I look in the glass,

That such my features good angels defend.

It raises its hands white as flakes of snow,

Is that the velvet band o'er my brow?

Oh Heaven! am I crazed—or nears my end?"

The lady pales, and the lady glows—

The lady turns not her looks askance,

As scarcely touching the steps, up goes

The Shape with its spectral countenance:

A lamp in her right hand holds the maid,

Its flame flickers over the balustrade,

Misty and dim, as an elf-light's dance.

Under the dome of the spangled sky,

Like one in a trance, with dreams for a guide,

Floats the phantom, slowly—slowly by—

They open their ranks—and step aside—

Her foot makes no sound, as she glides along,

And the lights she has dimmed, seem to burn more strong,

As they wind up the stair so broad and wide.

The lady hears not the buzz of affright,

Heeds not the shy looks, that of panic speak;

Fast follow her eyes the bluish light,

That streams on the pavement with ghastly streak.

It is now in the hall—now the record-room;

Now 'tis lost at once in a niche's gloom:

Ha! it comes again—ever faint—and more weak.