Poems (Temple)/The Murderer

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The MURDERER. 
Hark! to the muttering blast of NightThat sweeps o'er the heath its ruffling wing;Now does it rush o'er the dark-cliff's heightAnd now in the ruins loudly sing.
And did I not hear a fiend-like screamMingling its grief with the raving storm?And does not the lightning's zig-zag gleamGive to my eye-sight a ghostly form?
Yes! yes! 'tis the wailing voice of woeThat pours its dirge to the midnight gloom;Yes! yes! 'tis a spirit shall howling go'Till the judgment day shall seal its doom.
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Oh! 'tis the Murderer Jasper's shadeWhose pale-corse hangs on the heath hard by,There does it wither and there does it fade,And nightly swing to the cold-gale's sigh.
Long has his gibbet creak'd to the blast,And long has his dark-ghost wander'd near,And oft has the traveller journeying pastShrunk at the sight appall'd by fear.
And well may he shrink—for round the heath:Fell demons dance to the cold-moon's light,And oft does the pale, pale form of DeathRide by on the dusky cloud of Night.
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