Then, leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,— Now up the mead, now down the mead And past a shady nook, And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book! you "My gentle lad, what is't Romance, or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, read Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance, — "It is The Death of Abel.'" The Usher took six hasty strides, And, long since then, of bloody men, Of lonely folk cut off unseen, He told how murderers walk the earth With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain : For blood has left upon their souls "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, — Wo, wo, unutterable wo, Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream! "One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old: I led him to a lonely field; The moon shone clear and cold: "Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, "I took the ghastly body up, "Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool; And sat among the urchins young, "Alas! to think of their white souls, "And peace went with them, one and all, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red! "Heavily I rose up, as soon And sought the black accursed pool And I saw the dead in the river-bed, "Merrily rose the lark, and shook Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran, There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murder'd man! "And all that day I read in school, And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, "Then down I cast me on my face, For I knew my secret then was one "Oh boy! that horrid, horrid dream And my red right hand grows raging hot, "And still no peace for the restless clay The horrid thing pursues my soul, It stands before me now!" The fearful boy look'd up, and saw That very night, while gentle sleep Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, HOOD. [From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.] TINE-and-twenty knights of fame NINE Hung their shields in Branksome Hall; Brought them their steeds from bower to stall; Waited, duteous, on them all: They were all knights of mettle true, Ten of them were sheathed in steel, Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard; They carved at the meal With gloves of steel, And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd. Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, |