PART I.

The morn is looking on the lake, Beside the ruined abbey; And its fingers white on the waters shake, Like the quivering curls of a silver snake, For the pale old moon it must keep its wake In the dark clouds thick and shaggy! The night-wind hath a moaning tone, And it cometh moaning by; The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone, That years have crumbled, one by one, Answereth—sometimes like a groan, And sometimes like a sigh.

A little light through the forest-trees Is twinkling very bright, Like a distant star upon waveless seas, Or a glow-worm of the night; ’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin, The little light of the village inn!

It is a parlor dimly lit, And shadows on the arras flit; Shadows here and shadows there, Shadows shifting everywhere, Very thin and very tall, Moving, mingling on the wall— Till they make one shadow all!

An old clock in the corner stands, Clicking! clicking! all the while; And its long and shadowy hands Would seem to say this hour is man’s, But Life hath swiftly running sands, And may wither in a smile.

A fire is blazing upon the hearth, And it crackles aloud as if in mirth; By its flickering flames you may chance to see There are six men sitting in groups of three; They laugh and talk—they drink and drain Their goblets, till to drink is pain, And the eyes are brighter than the brain.

Three gamble at the pictured vice, And three upheave the rattling dice, The cards go round— The boxes sound— A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!! For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet; An aching smile and a muttered curse, A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse, Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the din Of hearts that lose and hearts that win!