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Malicious spirits trail
A ground-fire thin and pale,
Which the belated wight
Pursues the livelong night,
Till in the treacherous ground
An unmade grave is found,—
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth amain,
Ha! ha! his feeble cries
Begin our revelries.
III.
When the spirits of the North,
Hurl howling tempests forth;
When seas of lightning flare,
And thunders choke the air;
When the ocean starts to life,
To madness, horror, strife,
And the goodly bark breaks up,
Like ungirded drinking cup,
And each stately mast is split
In some rude thunder-fit;
And like feather on the foam,
Float shattered plank and boom;
