O! HOLY Mary, hear the blast!
The elms 'twill overthrow,
Where, hung in chains, a murderer's bones
Are tossing to and fro.
The robber Polydore is up,
And listens to the moan;
He fears to sleep, for on the heath
His cottage stands alone.
A knock comes thund'ring to the door,
The robber's heart leaps high.
'Now open quick, dost thou not mind
Thy comrade Gregory?'--
'Whoe'er thou art, with smother'd voice
Strive not to cheat mine ear;
My comrade Gregory is dead,
His bones are hanging near.'--

'Now ope thy door, nor parley more;
'Tis true I'm Gregory;
And, if 'twere not for the gibbet rope,
My voice were clear and free.
The wind is high, the wind is loud,
It bends the old elm tree;
The blast has toss'd my bones about,
This night most wearily.
'The elm was dropping on my hair,
The shackles galled my feet;
To hang in chains is a bitter lair,
And, oh! a bed is sweet.
I've borne my lot for many a night,
Nor yet disturb'd thee here;
Then sure a pillow thou wilt give
Unto thy old compeer?'
'Tempt me no more,' the robber cried,
And struggled with his fear;
Were this a night to ope my door,
Thy taunts should cost thee dear.'--
'Ah! comrade, you did not disown,
Nor bid me brave the cold;
The door was open soon when I
Brought murder'd Mansell's gold.

'When for a bribe you gave me up
To the cruel gallows' tree,
You made my bed with readiness,
And stirr'd the fire for me.
But I have sworn to visit thee,
Then cease to bid me go;
And ope, or soon thy bolts and bars
Shall burst beneath my blow.'
Oh! sick at heart grew Polydore,
And wish'd the dawn of day;
That voice had quell'd his haughty heart,
He knew not what to say.
For now the one that stood without,
For entrance crav'd no more,
And when no voice in answer came,
He struck, and burst the door.
'Why shrink'st thou thus, good comrade, now
With such a wilder'd gaze?
Dost fear my rusted shackles' clank?
Dost fear my wither'd face?
But for the gallows' rope, that face
Had ne'er thus startled thee,
And the gallows' rope, was't not the fruit
Of thy foul treachery?

'But come thou forth, we'll visit now
The elm with the wither'd rind,
For though thy door was barr'd to me,
Yet I will be more kind.
That is my home, the ravens there
Are all my company,
And they and I will both rejoice
In such a guest as thee.
'The tempest's loud, but clasp my arm
Why, why dost thou delay?
That arm thou did'st not doubt to clasp,
When my life was sold away.'
The stormy wind sung wild and loud
Round trembling Polydore;
As by his dead companion led,
He struggled o'er the moor.
And soon they reach'd a wilderness,
By human foot unpress'd,
The wind grew cold, the heather sigh'd,
As conscious of their guest:
Soon did they on the dreary heath
The wither'd elm-tree find,
Where a halter, with a ready noose,
Hung dancing to the wind.

Then turning round, his ghastly face
Was twisted with a smile,
'Now living things are far remote,
We'll rest us here awhile.
Brothers we were, good Polydore,
We robb'd in company;
Brothers we were, and we in death
Shall also brothers be.
'Behold the elm, behold the rope,
Which I prepar'd before.
Thou'rt pale!--'tis but a struggle, man,
And soon that struggle's o'er.
Tremble no more, but cheerful come,
And like a brother be;
I'll hold the rope, and in my arms
I'll help you up the tree.'
The eyes of Polydore grew dim,
He rous'd himself to pray,
But a heavy weight sat on his breast,
And took all voice away.
The rope is tied, then from his lips
A cry of anguish broke,
Too powerful for the bands of sleep,
And Polydore awoke.

All vanish'd now the cursed elm,
His dead companion gone,
With troubled joy he found himself
In darkness and alone.
But still the wind with hollow gusts
Fought ravening on the moor,
And check'd his transports, while it shook
The bolted cottage door.