Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light, Glide,--gliding round the golden rim! Restored to life, now glancing bright, Now just expiring, faint and dim! Like a spirit loath to die, Contending with its destiny. All dark! a momentary veil Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale Uncertain beauty glimmers faint, And now the calm face of the saint With every feature re-appears, Celestial in unconscious tears! Another gleam! how sweet the while, Those pictured faces on the wall, Through the midnight silence smile! Shades of fair ones, in the aisle Vaulted the castle cliffs below, To nothing mouldered, one and all, Ages long ago! From her pillow, as if driven By an unseen demon's hand Disturbing the repose of heaven, Hath fallen her head! The long black hair From the fillet's silken band In dishevelled masses riven, Is streaming downwards to the floor. Is the last convulsion o'er? And will that length of glorious tresses, So laden with the soul's distresses. By those fair hands in morning light, Above those eyelids opening bright, Be braided nevermore! No, the lady is not dead, Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed; Like a wretched corse upon the shore, That lies until the morning brings Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings; Or, haply, to all eyes unknown, Is borne away without a groan, On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries Of birds that pierce the sunny skies With seaward dash, or in calm bands Parading o'er the silvery sands, Or mid the lovely flush of shells, Pausing to burnish crest or wing. No fading footmark see that tells Of that poor unremembered thing! O dreadful is the world of dreams, When all that world a chaos seems Of thoughts so fixed before! When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! And friends cross o'er our solitude, Now friends of our's no more! Or dearer to our hearts than ever. Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands, To clasp us phantoms, as we go Along the void like drifting snow. To far-off nameless lands! Yet all the while we know not why, Nor where those dismal regions lie, Half hoping that a curse to so deep And wild can only be in sleep, And that some overpowering scream Will break the fetters of the dream, And let us back to waking life, Filled though it be with care and strife; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Assured that no mock shower is shed Of tears upon the real dead, Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss, When bending o'er the death-like cheek Of one who scarcely seems alive, At every cold but breathing kiss. He hears a saving angel speak-- 'Thy love will yet revive!'