The hall was cleared,--- the stranger's bed, Was there of mountain heather spread, Where oft a hundred guests had lain, And dreamed their forest sports again.

But vainly did the heath-flower shed Its moorland fragrance round his head;Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest The fever of his troubled breast.

In broken dreams the image rose Of varied perils, pains, and woes:

His steed now flounders in the brake, Now sinks his barge upon the lake;Now leader of a broken host, His standard falls, his honor's lost.

Then,--from my couch may heavenly might Chase that worst phantom of the night!--Again returned the scenes of youth, Of confident, undoubting truth;Again his soul he interchanged With friends whose hearts were long estranged.

They come, in dim procession led, The cold, the faithless, and the dead;As warm each hand, each brow as gay, As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view,--

O were his senses false or true?

Dreamed he of death or broken vow, Or is it all a vision now?