I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
        Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
        Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
        With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
        The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
        The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
        The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
        No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
        As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
        Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
        On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
        The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
        The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
        That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
        Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
        In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
        Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
        The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
        Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
        In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
        But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep churchbell
        Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
        The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
        The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
        Our ghastly fears are dead.