Their shadowy forms are floating round,
In parlor and in hall;
They come and go without a sound,--
As night dews gently fall.
One writer says, "Their airy forms
Are round us everywhere;
They are flitting in and out the door,
And up and down the stairs."
Others the theory deride;
But oft it seems to me,
Beings are present by my side,
Which yet, I cannot see.
Sometimes I start and gaze around,
With half-bewildered air,
Thinking some lov'd one's form to see,
Within the vacant chair.
Sometimes a gentle rustling
Falls faintly on the ear;
Some angel, with the radiant wing,
Perchance is hov'ring near.
We watch the dying Christian's bed,
When death has marked his prey;
He struggles painfully for breath,
And longs to pass away.
But suddenly his eye grows bright,
Lit by unearthly fires;
He gazes upward with delight,--
The angels strike their lyres.
The music falls upon his ear,
In sweet seraphic strains;
Nought earthly can detain him here,--
His spirit bursts its chains,
Ossian, old Scotia's ancient bard,
The genius of the past;
Saw ghosts upon the fleecy clouds,
And heard them in the blast.
The spirits of the mighty dead,
That were in battle slain,
Came by his master spirit led,
Back to this earth again,
Their shadowy forms, in mist arrayed,
Rode on the drifting clouds;
The fork'd lightnings round them play'd,
And thunders echo'd loud.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309