Faint sighs come to him on the sleep-hush'd air,
That swell to thunder in his timid breast,
Rooted he gazes out with glazed stare
At his poor murder'd child in grave clothes drest;
"My Father!" cried she in her chill despair,
With palms together in mute anguish prest--
"Hence! hence! avenging spirit, haunt me not!"
He cried, then totter'd from the fearful spot.