XXV.

“All night I lay in agony,
  In anguish dark and deep;
My fever’d eyes I dared not close,
  But stared aghast at Sleep: 
For Sin had render’d unto her
  The keys of Hell to keep!”

XXVI.

“All night I lay in agony,
  From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
  That rack’d me all the time;
A mighty yearning, like the first
  Fierce impulse unto crime!”

XXVII.

“One stern tyrannic thought, that made
  All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
  Did that temptation crave,—­
Still urging me to go and see
  The Dead Man in his grave!”

XXVIII.

“Heavily I rose up, as soon
  As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
  With a wild misgiving eye;
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
  For the faithless stream was dry.”

XXIX.

“Merrily rose the lark, and shook
  The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never mark’d its morning flight,
  I never heard it sing: 
For I was stooping once again
  Under the horrid thing.”

XXX.

“With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
  I took him up and ran;—­
There was no time to dig a grave
  Before the day began: 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
  I hid the murder’d man!”

XXXI.

“And all that day I read in school,
  But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
  In secret I was there: 
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
  And still the corse was bare!”

XXXII.

“Then down I cast me on my face,
  And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
  That earth refused to keep: 
Or land or sea, though he should be
  Ten thousand fathoms deep.”

XXXIII.

“So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
  Till blood for blood atones! 
Ay, though he’s buried in a cave,
  And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,—­
  The world shall see his bones!”

XXXIV.

“Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream
  Besets me now awake! 
Again again, with dizzy brain,
  The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
  Like Cranmer’s at the stake.”

XXXV.

“And still no peace for the restless clay
  Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,—­
  It stands before me now!”
The fearful Boy look’d up, and saw
  Huge drops upon his brow.