I struck the rambling chord twing twang,—And on my blooming word,No sooner he the sound had heardThan standing the tall tomb besideA foolish fellow I espied.The tears fell from his socket eyesUpon his bosom, cross-bone-wise,And mingled with his boney sighs,The while his crater eyes he fixtUpon the clock that shone betwixtThe trees, high in the ivy-tower.
'Twas well upon the midnight hourWhen on the clock he fixt his eyeAnd shrilled in wailing tenor high,"An opera singer once was I;Always to painted moons I cry,O pretty moon! O pretty moon! For you I die!"—I struck the rambling chord twing twang,—"O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang,"Always for you I die! I die!"His voice went slithering to a sigh;I struck the rambling chord twing twang,The while the pretty moon he sang.
[72]
