 | Poems |  |
'Tis night—the time when real forms are still;
When superstition walks—when she creates
New eyes, new ears—and sees across the moor,
Or on the lea, or by the church-yard path,
Forms more or less than human, bloody or pale,
Slow-pacing, or quick-flying—she can hear
Foot-steps of terror, the loud clanking chain,
Disturbing the repose, at dead of night,
Of mansion, now untenanted; such forms,
As shake a very hero; sounds that stir,
In a saint's bosom, fear amid his prayers.
When superstition walks—when she creates
New eyes, new ears—and sees across the moor,
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Forms more or less than human, bloody or pale,
Slow-pacing, or quick-flying—she can hear
Foot-steps of terror, the loud clanking chain,
Disturbing the repose, at dead of night,
Of mansion, now untenanted; such forms,
As shake a very hero; sounds that stir,
In a saint's bosom, fear amid his prayers.
| Poems | |