through storm and rain, and never heeds at all--and wherefore
should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings--it croaks--ha, ha!
It comes--it comes."

And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure
quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and
fell to the ground.

"That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set
out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along
the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's
the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin
Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle,
which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a
sight--ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago--you shall have one
now without asking."

And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter
broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a
half-crazed improvisatore:

THE CORPSE-CANDLE

Lambere flamma {taphos} et circum funera pasci.

Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light
To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:--
Thrice it floated those old walls round--
Thrice it paused--till the grave it found.
Over the grass-green sod it glanced,
Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,
Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering--
Never was seen so gay a thing!
Never was seen so blithe a sight
As the midnight dance of that blue light!

Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?
Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?
Is it the soul, released from clay,
Over the earth that takes its way,
And tarries a moment in mirth and glee
Where the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?
Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,
That taketh in mortal mischance delight,
And marketh the road the coffin shall go,
And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?
Ask him who can answer these questions aright;
I know not the cause of that pale blue light!

"I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the sexton
finished his stave, "but if thou _didst_ see a corpse-candle, as thou
call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?--eh!"

"Thine own," returned Peter, sharply.

"Mine! thou lying old cheat--dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm
as hale and hearty as ever a