I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, | |
| Some legend strange and vague, | |
| That a midnight host of spectres pale | |
| Beleaguered the walls of Prague. | |
| |
| Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, | 5 |
| With the wan moon overhead, | |
| There stood, as in an awful dream, | |
| The army of the dead. | |
| |
| White as a sea-fog, landward bound, | |
| The spectral camp was seen, | 10 |
| And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, | |
| The river flowed between. | |
| |
| No other voice nor sound was there, | |
| No drum, nor sentry’s pace; | |
| The mist-like banners clasped the air | 15 |
| As clouds with clouds embrace. | |
| |
| But when the old cathedral bell | |
| Proclaimed the morning prayer, | |
| The white pavilions rose and fell | |
| On the alarmèd air. | 20 |
| |
| Down the broad valley fast and far | |
| The troubled army fled; | |
| Up rose the glorious morning star, | |
| The ghastly host was dead. | |
| |
| I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, | 25 |
| That strange and mystic scroll, | |
| That an army of phantoms vast and wan | |
| Beleaguer the human soul. | |
| |
| Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream, | |
| In Fancy’s misty light, | 30 |
| Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam | |
| Portentous through the night. | |
| |
| Upon its midnight battle-ground | |
| The spectral camp is seen, | |
| And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, | 35 |
| Flows the River of Life between. | |
| |
| No other voice nor sound is there, | |
| In the army of the grave; | |
| No other challenge breaks the air, | |
| But the rushing of Life’s wave. | 40 |
| |
| And when the solemn and deep church-bell | |
| Entreats the soul to pray, | |
| The midnight phantoms feel the spell, | |
| The shadows sweep away. | |
| |
| Down the broad Vale of Tears afar | 45 |
| The spectral camp is fled; | |
| Faith shineth as a morning star, | |
| Our ghastly fears are dead. | |
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