"Why do'st thou glare? Why do'st thou wave
That fatal cursed knife?
The deed is done, and from the grave
Who can recall to life?

"Why rolls thine eye beneath thy brow,
Dark as the midnight storm?
What do'st thou want? O, let me know!
But hide thy dreadful form.

"I'd give the life's blood from my heart
To wash my crime away:
If thou'rt a spirit, O, depart!
Nor haunt a wretch of clay.

"Say, do'st thou with the blessed dwell?
Return and blessed be!
Or com'st thou from the lowest hell?
I am more curst than thee."

The form advanc'd with solemn step,
As though it meant to speak;
And thrice it mov'd its mutt'ring lip,
But silence did not break.

Then sternly stalk'd with heavy pace,
Which shook the trembling wall;
And, frowning, turn'd its angry face,
And vanish'd from the hall.