Now round him young Carloman, casting his eyes,
     Surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprise,
     And fear steals the rose from his cheeks. 
     His spirits forsake him, his courage is flown;
     The hand of Sir Osric he clasps in his own,
     And while his voice falters he speaks.

     “Dear uncle,” he murmurs, “why linger we here? 
     ’Tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear,
     Keen blows through the ruins the blast! 
     Oh! let us away and our journey pursue: 
     Fair Blumenberg’s Castle will rise on our view,
     Soon as Falkenstein forest be passed.

     “Why roll thus your eyeballs? why glare they so wild? 
     Oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child
     Should view these apartments with dread;
     For know that full oft have I heard from my nurse,
     There still on this castle has rested a curse,
     Since innocent blood here was shed.

     “She said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white,
     Here used to resort at the dead time of night,
     Nor vanish till breaking of day;
     And still at their coming is heard the deep tone
     Of a bell loud and awful—­hark! hark! ’twas a groan! 
     Good uncle, oh! let us away!”

     “Peace, serpent!” thus Osric the Lion replies,
     While rage and malignity gleam in his eyes;
     “Thy journey and life here must close: 
     Thy castle’s proud turrets no more shalt thou see;
     No more betwixt Blumenberg’s lordship and me
     Shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose.

     “My brother lies breathless on Palestine’s plains,
     And thou once removed, to his noble domains
     My right can no rival deny: 
     Then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed;
     No succour is near, and thy fate is decreed,
     Commend thee to Jesus and die!”

     Thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm,
     Whose grief rends the vaulted hall’s roof, while alarm
     His heart of all fortitude robs;
     His limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears,
     He falls at his uncle’s feet, bathes them with tears,
     And “Spare me! oh, spare me!” he sobs.

     But vainly the miscreant he tries to appease;
     And vainly he clings in despair round his knees,
     And sues in soft accents for life;
     Unmoved by his sorrow, unmoved by his prayer,
     Fierce Osric has twisted his hand in his hair,
     And aims at his bosom a knife.

     But ere the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell! 
     Self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-toned bell
     The presence of midnight declare: 
     And while with amazement his hair bristles high,
     Hears Osric a voice, loud and terrible, cry,
     In sounds heart-appalling, “Forbear!”