Songs

Dark the room where she doth lie;
One who dreameth, yet knows death nigh.
One whose dream with radiance glows,
While in measure soft music flows,
Till, lo, she arises and see through the door
Come the throng of the dear wraiths remember'd of yore.
Waltz strains, their measures recalling the pleasures
Of old, bring a vision that memory treasures,
And she who is dying doth beckon and wave
To the guests of the past who have come from the grave;
While spectral, they're turning
Round her who is yearning
And old loves and friendships doth crave.

Ah, sad the waltz to which they sway,
Those ghostly guests of bygone day!
Eyes of the living in vain a glance pray
The shadows turn theirs away,
She swoons in dismay!

Once again the sad strains woo,
Longing, she leaves her couch anew,
Once again shadowy dancers who throng
Are borne along
Thro' the weird maze of the waltz of the dead
They soundless wind,
By ghostly music each footstep is sped,
Each turn defined,
The pale wraiths tread
To music that e'er more weirdly doth sound,
Until a cry despairing bids cease the uncanny round,
Spectres flying, music dying,
There's a knocking at the door!

Dread forboding,
thy voice fate's!
On the threshold
'Tis Death who waits!