J78 A Song. 



XIII. 



And ever, as the midnight bell 

 Twelve awful strokes had toll'd, 



That dark man by her bedside stood, 

 Whilst all her blood run cold ; 



And ever and anon he cried, 

 " I could a tail unfold !" 



XIV. 



And so her strength of heart grew less, 

 For heart-less she had been ; 



And on her pallid cheek a small 

 Red hectic spot was seen : 



You could not say her life was spent 

 Without a spot, I ween. 



XV. 



And they who mark'd that crimson light 

 Well knew the treacherous bloom 



A light that shines, alas ! alas ! 

 To light us to our tomb : 



They said 'twas like thy cross, St. Paul's, 

 The signal of her doom. 



XVI. 



And so it prov'd she lost her health, 

 When breath she needed most 



Just as the winning horse gets blown 

 Close by the winning-post: 



The ghost, he gave up plaguing her 

 So she gave up the ghost ! 



H.L 



