He goeth to say the midnight mass, In holy St. Edmond's town. 5 He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, The Abbey's drear aisle this night. "Till that holy man come near, ΙΟ 'Till he pour o'er its grave the prayer of peace, And sprinkle the hallowed tear. The Canon's horse is stout and strong The road is plain and fair, But the Canon slowly wends along, 15 And his brow is gloomed with care. Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate? Sullen echoes the portal bell, It sounds like the whispering voice of fate, It sounds like a funeral knell. 20 The Canon his faltering knee thrice, bowed, And his frame was convulsed with fear, When a voice was heard distinct and loud, 'Prepare! for thy hour is near.' 'Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night, You've journeyed many a mile, To-morrow lay the wailing sprite, That shrieks in the moonlight aisle. 'Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, 45 Yet to-night must the sprite be laid, Yet to-night when the hour of horror's told, Must I meet the wandering shade. 'Nor food, nor rest may now delay,For hark! the echoing pile, 50 A bell loud shakes!-Oh haste away, O lead to the haunted aisle.' The torches slowly move before, 55 The cross is raised on high, A smile of peace the Canon wore, But horror dimmed his eyeAnd now they climb the footworn stair, The chapel gates unclose, Now each breathed low a fervent He crosses his breast, he mutters a 'Say father, say, what cloisters' gloom Conceals the unquiet shade, 66 Within what dark unhallowed tomb, The corse unblessed was laid.' 'Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks, And murmurs a mournful plaint, 70 Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks, And call on thy patron saintThe pilgrim this night with wondering eyes, As he prayed at St. Edmond's shrine, From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, 75 And under yon arch recline.''Oh! say upon that black marble tomb, What memorial sad appears.'— 'Undistinguished it lies in the chancel's gloom, No memorial sad it bears'- 80 'AH! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill, Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill, The thunder's wild voice rattles madly above, You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.-' Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription I must dearest Agnes, the night is far blood red, And I'd sooner resign this false fluttering breath, 15 Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death, |