I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, <br />Some legend strange and vague, <br />That a midnight host of spectres pale <br />Beleaguered the walls of Prague. <br /> <br />Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, <br />With the wan moon overhead, <br />There stood, as in an awful dream, <br />The army of the dead. <br /> <br />White as a sea-fog, landward bound, <br />The spectral camp was seen, <br />And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, <br />The river flowed between. <br /> <br />No other voice nor sound was there, <br />No drum, nor sentry's pace; <br />The mist-like banners clasped the air, <br />As clouds with clouds embrace. <br /> <br />But when the old cathedral bell <br />Proclaimed the morning prayer, <br />The white pavilions rose and fell <br />On the alarmed air. <br /> <br />Down the broad valley fast and far <br />The troubled army fled; <br />Up rose the glorious morning star, <br />The ghastly host was dead. <br /> <br />I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, <br />That strange and mystic scroll, <br />That an army of phantoms vast and wan <br />Beleaguer the human soul. <br /> <br />Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, <br />In Fancy's misty light, <br />Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam <br />Portentous through the night. <br /> <br />Upon its midnight battle-ground <br />The spectral camp is seen, <br />And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, <br />Flows the River of Life between. <br /> <br />No other voice nor sound is there, <br />In the army of the grave; <br />No other challenge breaks the air, <br />But the rushing of Life's wave. <br /> <br />And when the solemn and deep churchbell <br />Entreats the soul to pray, <br />The midnight phantoms feel the spell, <br />The shadows sweep away. <br /> <br />Down the broad Vale of Tears afar <br />The spectral camp is fled; <br />Faith shineth as a morning star, <br />Our ghastly fears are dead.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voices-of-the-night-the-beleaguered-city/
