Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks! See, see, the winding-sheet! Our dance is done, Our race is run, And we must lie at the alder's feet! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave! And we must seek Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave. They vanish--The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music. Come, Melancholy, sister mine! Cold the dews, and chill the night! Come from thy dreary shrine! The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, And underneath her sickly ray Troops of squalid spectres play, And the dying mortals' groan Startles the night on her dusky throne. Come, come, sister mine! Gliding on the pale moonshine: We'll ride at ease On the tainted breeze, And oh! our sport will be divine. The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.--She speaks. Sister, from my dark abode, Where nests the raven, sits the toad, Hither I come, at thy command: Sister, sister, join thy hand! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me. Come, let us speed our way Where the troops of spectres play. To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, Where Death sits with a horrible leer, A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, And skim along the blue tombstones. Come, let us speed away, Lay our snares, and spread our tether! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me; And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together. CONSUMPTION. Come, let us speed our way, Join our hands, and spread our tether! I will furnish food for thee, Thou shalt smooth the way for me! And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together. MELANCHOLY. Hist, sister, hist! who comes here? Oh! I know her by that tear, By that blue eye's languid glare, By her skin, and by her hair: She is mine, And she is thine, Now the deadliest draught prepare. CONSUMPTION. In the dismal night air dress'd, I will creep into her breast: Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, And feed on the vital fire within. Lover, do not trust her eyes,-- When they sparkle most, she dies! Mother, do not trust her breath,-- Comfort she will breathe in death! Father, do not strive to save her,-- She is mine, and I must have her! The coffin must be her bridal bed! The winding-sheet must wrap her head; The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, For soon in the grave the maid must lie: The worm it will riot On heavenly diet, When death has deflower'd her eye. [They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.] ANGELINA.