live, And the waste solitudes of night inhabit With direful shadows of the nether world, Yet leave thee lonely in the throng of men—      Not of them, thou, but creature set apart Under a ban, and doomed henceforth to know The wise man's scorn, the dull man's sorry jest. For who could credence give to that mad tale Of churchyard folk appearing in broad day, And drifting out at casement like a mist? Marry, not they who crowded up the stair In haste, and peered into that empty cell, And had half mind to buffet Master Nokes, Standing with finger laid across his palm In argumentative, appealing way, Distraught, of countenance most woe-begone.      “See!—the two swords. As I 'm a Christian soul!”       “Odds, man!” cried one, “thou 'st been a-dreamin', man. Cleave to thy beer, an' let strong drink alone!”         So runs the legend. So from their long sleep Those ghosts arose and fled into the night. But never bride came to that dark abode, For wild flames swept it ere a month was gone, And nothing spared but that forlorn old tower Whereon the invisible fingers of the wind Its fitful and mysterious dirges play. 

  

 Prev. P 21/21