And then for amusement—­perchance it was cold—­
    In a circle they seemed to advance;
  The poor and the rich, and the young and the old,—­
    But the grave-clothes impeded the dance: 
  And as no person thought about modesty there,
  They flung off their garments, and stripped themselves bare,
    And a shroud lay on each heap of mould.

  They kicked up their heels, and they rattled their bones,
    And the horrible din that they made
  Went clickety-clackety—­just like the tones
    Of a castanet noisily played. 
  And the warder he laughed as he witnessed the cheer,
  And he heard the Betrayer speak soft in his ear,
    “Go and steal away one of their shrouds.”

  Swift as thought it was done—­in an instant he fled
    Behind the church portal to hide;
  And brighter and brighter the moon-beam was shed,
    As the dance they still shudderingly plied;—­
  But at last they began to grow tired of their fun,
  And they put on their shrouds, and slipped off, one by one,
    Beneath, to the homes of the dead.

  But tapping at every grave-hill, there staid
    One skeleton, tripping behind;
  Though not by his comrades the trick had been played—­
    Now its odour he snuffed in the wind: 
  He rushed to the door—­but fell back with a shock;
  For well for the wight of the bell and the clock,
    The sign of the cross it displayed.

  But the shroud he must have—­not a moment he stays;
    Ere a man had begun but to think,
  On the Gothic-work his fingers quickly he lays,
    And climbs up its chain, link by link. 
  Now woe to the warder—­for sure he must die—­
  To see, like a long-legged spider, draw nigh
    The skeleton’s clattering form: 

  And pale was his visage, and thick came his breath;
    The garb, alas! why did he touch? 
  How sick grew his soul as the garment of death
    The skeleton caught in his clutch—­
  The moon disappeared, and the skies changed to dun,
  And louder than thunder the church-bell tolled one—­
    The spectre fell tumbling to bits!

[and one of the prose tales, abridged:]

BEATRICE ADONY AND JULIUS ALVINZI.

There is not in all Germany a more pleasant station for a regiment of horse than the city of Salzburgh, capital of the province of that name, in the dominions of the House of Austria.  Here, during the summer and autumn of 1795, lay the third regiment of Hungarian hussars.  This corps had sustained a heavy loss during the campaign of the year previous in Flanders, and was sent into garrison to be recruited and organized anew.  Count Zichy, who commanded it, was a noble of the highest rank, of princely fortune, and of lavish expenditure; and being of a cheerful and social turn of mind, he promoted all the amusements of the place, and encouraged the gaiety of his officers.