If Superstition has her dream,
  She also has her waking hour;
Nor ever man, howe’er supreme,
  Can free him from her mystic power. 
And it was told, in whispering way,
  That once Craigullan led his hounds
Out forth upon a Sabbath day
  Within the church bells’ sacred sounds;
And as he rode, by fury fired,
  A woman, pregnant, overthrown
Beneath his horse’s hoofs, expired,
  And, dying, shrieked this malison: 
From this day forth, till time shall cease,
  May madness haunt Craigullan’s race!

The words struck on a sceptic’s ear: 
  Would woman’s curse his pleasure stay? 
He blew his horn both loud and clear,
  And with his hounds he hied away. 
He conned no more the weird reve
  Which all conspired to prove untrue,
For he had healthy daughters five,
  Who up in maiden beauty grew—­
Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane—­
  Such was the order of their birth—­
And Florabel and Clementine,
  All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.

But man is blind, with all his power,
  And gropes through life his darksome way;
Nor ever thinks the evil hour
  May come within the brightest day.

As custom went, a noble throng
  Hath filled Craigullan’s ancient hall,
Amidst th’ inspiring dance and song,
  Clorinda is admired of all. 
The sun with his enlivening light
  Brings out the viper and the rose,
And joy that cheers will oft excite
  Dark Mania from her long repose. 
Amidst the dance and music there—­
  The dance which she so proudly led—­
A maniac shriek has rent the air—­
  Clorinda falls, her reason fled.

In vain shall passing time essay
  To soothe the dire domestic pain;
Fair Isobel becomes the prey
  Of that same demon of the brain. 
When autumn winds were sighing low,
  When birds were singing on the tree,
Amidst their song she met the foe,
  And sank beneath the fell decree.

Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read,
  Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen;
She bends again her vengeful head—­
  Woe! woe! to old Craigullan. 
The next by fatal count of Time,
  The next by her foreboding fears—–­
Jane falls, like those in early prime—­
  She falls amidst a mother’s tears.

Nor finished yet the weird spell,
  Wrought out by some high powers divine. 
The victim next is Florabel,
  The fairest of Craigullan’s line. 
The shadow fell upon her bloom,
  Grew darker as the period neared,
As if the terror of her doom
  Wrought out the issue which it feared.

If Superstition has her dreams,
  Proud reason has her mystic day;
And who shall harmonize the themes
  In this world’s dark and dreary way? 
If Clementine is yet forgot,
  Is the relief to her a gain? 
She fears the demon in each thought,
  In every fancy of the brain. 
If once a cheerful thought shall rise,