A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, -
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe.

'Twas then that I started! - the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;
Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

My heart sank within me - unheeded the war
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke; -
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear -
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding,
The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.

I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me - '


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