I am sitting lone and weary
On the hearth of my darkened room,
And the low wind's _miserere_
Makes sadder the midnight gloom;
There's a terror that's nameless nigh me--
There's a phantom spell in the air,
And methinks that the dead glide by me,
And the breath of the grave's in my hair!

'Tis a vision of ghastly faces,
All pallid, and worn with pain,
Where the splendor of manhood's graces
Give place to a gory stain;
In a wild and weird procession
They sweep by my startled eyes,
And stern with their fate's fruition,
Seem melting in blood-red skies.

Have they come from the shores supernal,
Have they passed from the spirit's goal,
'Neath the veil of the life eternal,
To dawn on my shrinking soul?
Have they turned from the choiring angels,
Aghast at the woe and dearth
That war, with his dark evangels,
Hath wrought in the loved of earth?

Vain dream! 'mid the far-off mountains
They lie, where the dew-mists weep,