Chapter 12

There's something in that ancient superstition,
Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.
The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles,
Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock
In secret solitude, may well be deem'd
The haunt of something purer, more refined,
And mightier than ourselves.
OLD PLAY.

Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced the mystical rhymes,
than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter, an
appearance, as of a beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within
two yards of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural
courage, as well as the strong resolution which he had formed, that
the figure which he had now twice seen should not a third time daunt
him. But it would seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to
flesh and blood, in the consciousness that we stand in presence of a
being in form like to ourselves, but so different in faculties and
nature, that we can neither understand its purposes, nor calculate its
means of pursuing them.

Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs erecting
themselves on his head---his mouth open--his eyes fixed, and, as the
sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose, his sword pointed
towards the apparition. At length with a voice of ineffable
sweetness, the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this
being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines:--

"Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?
He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing!
To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.
The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground,
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,
For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day."

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way to his
resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a faltering
accent, "In the name of God, what art thou?" The answer was in melody
of a different tone and measure:--

"What I am I must not show--
What I am thou couldst not know--
Something betwixt heaven and hell--
Something that neither stood nor fell--
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good--may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing; by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion,

While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle is our