’Now haste within! the board is spread,
Keen blows the air, and cold,
The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed,
’Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,—­ 40

’Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,
You’ve journeyed many a mile,
To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,
That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

’Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, 45
Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,
Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,
Must I meet the wandering shade.

’Nor food, nor rest may now delay,—­
For hark! the echoing pile, 50
A bell loud shakes!—­Oh haste away,
O lead to the haunted aisle.’

The torches slowly move before,
The cross is raised on high,
A smile of peace the Canon wore, 55
But horror dimmed his eye—­

And now they climb the footworn stair,
The chapel gates unclose,
Now each breathed low a fervent prayer,
And fear each bosom froze—­ 60

Now paused awhile the doubtful band
And viewed the solemn scene,—­
Full dark the clustered columns stand,
The moon gleams pale between—­

‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom 65
Conceals the unquiet shade,
Within what dark unhallowed tomb,
The corse unblessed was laid.’

’Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks,
And murmurs a mournful plaint, 70
Of thee!  Black Canon, it wildly talks,
And call on thy patron saint—­

The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes,
As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine,
From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, 75
And under yon arch recline.’—­

’Oh! say upon that black marble tomb,
What memorial sad appears.’—­
’Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom,
No memorial sad it bears’—­ 80

The Canon his paternoster reads,
His rosary hung by his side,
Now swift to the chancel doors he leads,
And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, 85
To approach to the black marble tomb,
‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell,
‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed. 
Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, 90
A loud yell was borne on the rising blast,
And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand,
They burst through the chancel’s gloom,
From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, 95
Points to the black marble tomb.