101
THE SPIRIT.
On Sunday—sacred holiday!
As late at eve I stayed to pray
(By the bright lamps that light that shrine)
To God, and to his orders nine,
In yonder church, that to my eyes
Appears a second Paradise—
A sudden tremor shook the ground!
Towards the deep and awful sound,
Thus questioning, I turned me round:
“By Him who in the sacred host
Is present—and the Holy Ghost!
Thou that thus lurkest in the gloom—
Thus low upon the pavement here,
Beneath the corner of the tomb!
Whose rugged murmurings I hear,
Livest thou—thing of mournful song?
Or dost thou to the dead belong?
If, flick’ring shape! thou livest still,
Thou art in melancholy plight.”
With thoughtful face, and accents shrill,
Thus answered the departed sprite:
“Unholy man, with joyous air!
I cannot profit by thy care!
In this sad form I dwell in cold,
And quake with anguish!—though of old
Buoyant with youth, and proud and bold,
I roamed and carolled every where—
