"Vain hope! the guilty never rest;
Dismay is always near:
There is a midnight in the breast
No morn shall ever cheer.

"The weary hind is now at rest,
Tho' lowly is his head,
How sweetly lies the guiltless breast,
Upon the hardest bed!

"The beggar, in his wretched haunt,
May now a monarch be;
Forget his woe, forget his want,
For all can sleep but me.

"I've dar'd whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread;
I never fear'd a living man,
And shall I fear the dead!

"No, whistling storms may shake my tower,
And passing spirits scream:
Their shadowy arms are void of power,
And but a gloomy dream.

"But, lo! a form advancing slow
Across my dusky hall!
Art thou a friend? art thou a foe?
O, answer to my call!"