Wake, arise, the lake, the skies Fade into the faery day; Come and sing before our king, Heed not Time, the dotard grey; Time has given his crown to heaven—Ah, how long? Awake, away! Then, as the Hermit rambled on In one long listless monotone, We heard a wild and mournful groan Come rumbling down the tunnelled way; A voice, an awful mournful bray, Singing some old funereal lay; Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull, Approached as if they trod on wool, And as they nearer, nearer drew, We saw our Host was listening too! His bulging eyes began to glow Like great red match-heads rubbed at night, And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!” To that grey old wicket where, out of sight, Blandly rubbing his hands and humming, He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming. He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before, As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door; And flung it open wide And most hospitably cried, “Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,— They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy, Such as you yourself must be!” Then the man, for so he seemed, (Doubtless one who’d lost his way And was dwarfed as we had been!) In his ancient suit of black, Black upon the verge of green, Entered like a ghost that dreamed Sadly of some bygone day; And he never ceased to sing In that awful mournful bray. The door closed behind his back; He walked round us in a ring, And we hoped that he might free us, But his tears appeared to blind him, For he didn’t seem to see us, And the Hermit crept behind him Like a cat about to spring. And the song he sang was this; And his nose looked very grand As he sang it, with a bliss Which we could not understand; For his voice was very sad, While his nose was proud and glad. Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears! Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears, Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years, Rain, April, rain. Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad; Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had; A little while, till I no more be sad, Rain, April, rain. And then the spider sprang Before we could breathe or speak, And one great scream out-rang As the terrible horny beak Crunched into the Sad Man’s head, And the terrible hairy claws Clutched him around his middle; And he opened his lantern-jaws, And he gave one twist, one twiddle, One kick, and his sorrow was dead. And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey, The spider leered at us—“You will do, My sweet little dears, for another day; But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!” And there we stood, in frozen fear, Whiter than death, With bated breath; And lo! as we thought of Peterkin, Father and home and Peterkin, Once more that music clear and thin, Clear as a skylark’s mounting song, But nearer now, more sweet, more strong, Drew all our wandering thoughts along, Until it seemed, a mystic sea Of hidden delight and harmony Began to ripple and rise all round The prison where our hearts lay bound; And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rim There swelled a distant marching hymn Which made the hideous Hermit pause And listen with lank down-dropt jaws, Till, with great bulging eyes of fear, He sought the wicket again to peer Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain We heard the still approaching strain, And, under it, the rhythmic beat Of multitudinous marching feet. Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang, And this was the marching song they sang:—