 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
LXXV.
[Slow tolls the bell: the snow is falling fast]
Slow tolls the bell: the snow is falling fast:The furious storm rides on the roaring blast:
The streams are ice: no moon or star appears:
Pale mortals clothe themselves in trembling fears:
Lost in the forest perjured spirits wail:
And frenzied ghosts go shrieking through the vale.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |