A Chorus of Ghosts:
"When midnight silence crowns the waves,
Wandering lights flit o'er the graves,
And with their deathly, bluish sheen,
They light the rigid, pallid mien
Of him who now the watch shall keep.[1]
Leaning against his cross of wood,
To guard this field of dreamless sleep.
A cloud across the zenith flies
And partly hides as with a hood
The moon, whose light falls on the eyes—
And thence upon the guard's clenched teeth,
Where the moonbeam finds its last retreat."
A Voice:
"The time is ripe!—Prepare the tent!
The 'Forest Lord' is to be sent
Into our fold the coming day."
A Chorus of Ghosts: (lowering the skull)
"From the land of death now speed away,
Regain new life and speak again,
Come be with us—a welcome guest.
For long, alone you stood the test,
Now someone else will take the reign."
The Skull: (twirling betwixt the ghosts)
"Within my limbs, a pain I feel;
Again as one I long to be.
What anguish in this mute appeal?
A new born dream now beckons me!"
A Voice:
"His tent is ready for the guest,
And when tomorrow's mid-night falls
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