"Nay, I will not believe,— it was not he;
Ye may not me cajole to things unseen
To grant a blind consent: I need to see
And handle with my hands. It ne'er has been
That one whose heart the Roman spear-point keen
Has torn and sundered — whom the enshrouding grave
Long nights and days enfolded fast, I ween —
Should break his bonds and leave his lonesome cave;
Nay, tell your dream to babes, such childish tales who crave.
"It was not him ye saw; your fever'd sight,
With long lament and pondering of the past,
Beheld some phantom of the frenzied night;
The times are out of joint, the graves upcast
Their ghostly brood upon the world aghast,
To walk the fitful pathways of the moon.
Except my finger in the print is pressed
Torn by the nails on that accursed noon,
Talk not to me, for me ye won't persuade so soon.
"Talk not of truthless risings of the dead
And sights unseen: except I thrust my hand
In daylight where was thrust the dire spear-head,
Prate not to me." But wrangling while they stand,
There was a movement 'mid the awestruck band —
