PEASANTS SAY MY HOME IS HAUNTED.
I
Peasants say my home is haunted
By a phantom cloth'd in white;
And unearthly strains are chaunted
In my halls at dead of night.
But the tale is idly spoken,
I behold no shadowy guest;
Though, alas! my sleep is broken
By remorse that cannot rest.
II
If, indeed, the dead have power
To descend from realms above;
Come to me at that dark hour,
Sainted spirit of my love!
Come! I will not shrink with terror
From thy glance—reveng'd thou art;
Thou shall see the slave of error
Dying of a broken heart.
III
Come! I think that it would cheer me,
Hopeless as my soul hath been,
To behold thee hover near me,
Pointing to a brighter scene.
Yes,—I feel by thee forgiven
These despairing pangs would cease;
I may dare look up to heaven,
And, though guilty, die in peace!
