by Wilford.
Originally published in The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review (J. Sidebetmem) vol.1 #7 (03 Jul 1819).
The sun had long set—'twas a dark rainy night
The castle gates still open wide;
When, on a white courser, in armour all bright,
Came gallopping swiftly, a warrior knight,
With buckler and spear by his side.
He leap'd from his horse, and he enter'd the ball,
Where carousing sat many a guest:
As he stalk'd up and down, at his heavy foot-fall,
The ladies turn'd pale, and the knights one and all,
With terrible fear were opprest.
He seated himself by the side of a maid,
Whose beauty fast faded away;
Her cheek in health's hue was no longer array'd—
She shrunk from his gaze, and that moment was laid
On the earth, a cold body of clay!
The knights were appall'd, and the ladies shriek'd loud--
Unceasing their horrible groans!—
When over the spectre there hover'd a cloud,
That did for a moment his tall figure shroud,
Then left him—a bundle of bones!
The spectre now sprang from the place where he stood--
That moment was silent all breath:—
He pois'd a long shaft, that was cover'd with blood,
Then drew from each bosom a red reeking flood,
And exclaim'd as he did it—I'm Death!
E'en thus will the marrowless monarch appear,
When gaiety 'livens each one:—
To health, well as sickness, he ever is near;
And the heart warm to-day, may be cold on the bier,
Ere to-morrow is cheer'd by the sun!