Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 11

But not to Lee. He sits alone; No fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by woe, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye--oh, how his worn thoughts crave-- Not joy again, but rest within the grave.

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To-night the charmèd number's told. "Twice have I come for thee," it said. "Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come! live one, to the dead!"-- So hears his soul, and fears the coming night; Yet sick and weary of the soft calm light.

Again he sits within that room; All day he leans at that still board; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.

Not long he waits. Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west su