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THE RETURN OF THE BURIED ONE.
'Twas late, late on a Sabbath night! At the hour of the ghost, and the restless sprite ! The mass at Carelha' had been read, And all the mourners were bound to bed, When a foot was heard on the paved floor, And a gentle rap came to the door.
O God! that such a ray should be So fraught with ambiguity! A dim haze clouded every sight; Each hair had life and stood upright; No sound was heard throughout the hall, But the beat of the heart and the cricket's call; So deep the silence imposed by fear, That a vacant buzz sang in the ear.
The lady of Carelha' first broke
I felt a pang-it was not dread
He took the key with an eye of doubt,
She enter'd the hall, she stood in the door,
And nought was heard within the hall,
“()! lady mother, thy fears forego ; Why all this terror and this woe? But late when I was in this place, Thou would'st not look me in the face ; 0! why do you blench at sight of me? I am thy own child, thy Mary Lee.”
“I saw thee dead and cold as clay ;
O’er Mary's face amazement spread;
From the Pilgrims of the Sun.