  ... And still, they say, when nights are nearly spent, And watchmen take their doze, before relief, He comes to walk upon the battlement, And all his brow is clouded with a grief. From end to end, from end to end he goes, Muttering his maledictions—and a name Of one who drowned, it seems—though no one knows, For there's a madness in his words, they claim. |
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