But one of them stumbles and fumbles along,
'Midst the tombstones groping intently;
But none of his comrades have done him this wrong,
His shroud in the breeze 'gins to scent he.
He rattles the door of the tower, but can find
No entrance,—good luck to the warder behind!—
'Tis barred with blest crosses of metal.
His shroud he must have, or rest can he ne'er;
And so, without further preambles,
The old Gothic carving he grips then and there,
From turret to pinnacle scrambles.
Alas for the warder! all's over, I fear;
From buttress to buttress in dev'lish career
He climbs like a long-legged spider.
The warder he trembles, and pale doth he look,
That shroud he would gladly be giving,
When piercing transfixed it a sharp-pointed hook!
He thought his last hour he was living.
Clouds cover already the vanishing moon,
With thunderous clang beats the clock a loud One—
Below lies the skeleton, shattered.
EFFECT AT A DISTANCE.
The Queen she stands in her castle's proud hall,
Where all brightly the tapers flame;
Now hie thee, sir page" (he came at her call),
"And fetch me my purse for the game;
It lies close at hand
On a marble stand."
To the palace end quickly away
Sped the page without further delay.
