Loud roars the wind that shakes this wall;
It is no common blast:
Deep hollow sounds pass thro' my hall,
O would the night were past!

"Methinks the dæmons of the air
Upon the turrets growl;
While down the empty winding stair
Their deep'ning murmurs roll.

"The glimm'ring fire cheers not the gloom:
How blue its weakly ray!
And like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.

"Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthen'd shadow falls:
My grandsires, to my troubled sight,
Low'r on me from these walls.

"Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth in its casement frown,
And darts a look, as if it said,
Where hast thou laid my son?

"But will these fancies never cease?
O, would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace,
But with the morning sun.