Genius builds on a slight foundation, and rears beautiful structures on "the baseless fabric of a vision." The above transient hint dwelt on the young man's fancy, and conjured into his memory all the murders which history records to have been committed in the Tower; Henry the Sixth, the Duke of Clarence, the two young princes, sons of Edward the Fourth, Sir Thomas Overbury, &c. He supposes all their ghosts assembled in this unexplored apartment, and to these his fertile imagination has added several others. One of the spectres raises an immense pall of black velvet, and discovers the remains of a murdered royal family, whose story is lost in the lapse of time.--The gloomy wildness of these images struck my imagination so forcibly, that endeavouring to catch the fire of the youth's pencil, this Fragment was produced. PART OF AN IRREGULAR FRAGMENT, FOUND IN A DARK PASSAGE OF THE TOWER. I. Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests rise! Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll; In this chill pause a deeper horror lies, A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul.-- 'Twas on this day[A], this hour accurst, That Nature starting from repose Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst-- From infant innocence they rose, And shook these solemn towers!-- I shudd'ring pass that fatal room For ages wrapt in central gloom;-- I shudd'ring pass that iron door Which Fate perchance unlocks no more; Death, smear'd with blood, o'er the dark portal lowers. [A] The anniversary of the murder of Edward the Fifth, and his brother Richard, Duke of York. II. How fearfully my step resounds Along these lonely bounds:-- Spare, savage blast! the taper's quiv'ring fires, Deep in these gath'ring shades its flame expires. Ye host of heaven! the door recedes-- It mocks my grasp--what unseen hands Have burst its iron bands? No mortal force this gate unbarr'd Where danger lives, which terrors guard-- Dread powers! its screaming hinges close On this dire scene of impious deeds-- My feet are fix'd!--Dismay has bound My step on this polluted ground-- But lo! the pitying moon, a line of light Athwart the horrid darkness dimly throws, And from yon grated window chases night.-- III. Ye visions that before me roll, That freeze my blood, that shake my soul! Are ye the phantoms of a dream? Pale spectres! are ye what ye seem? They glide more near-- Their forms unfold! Fix'd are their eyes, on me they bend-- Their glaring look is cold! And hark!--I hear Sounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend. IV.