XXXV.

In Santiago’s burial-green, while fall The struggling moonbeams from a stormy sky, With brilliance now unclouded, now with pall Of darkness shadowed intermittingly, A haggard, gaunt, and ghostly form doth try Each mound of earth for some peculiar sign, With preternatural strides and gleaming eye Doth pass from grave to grave, from line to line, With eye more fearful bright then halt and cry: “’Tis thine!”