Upon the eve of Bosworth, it is said,
While Richard waited through the drear night’s gloom
Until wan morn the death-field should illume,
Those he had murdered came with soundless tread
To daunt his soul with prophecies of dread,
And bid him know that, gliding from the tomb,
They would fight ’gainst him in his hour of doom
Until with theirs should lie his discrowned head.

To every man, in life’s decisive hour,
Ghosts of the past do through the conflict glide,
And for him or against him wield their power;
Lost hopes and wasted days and aims that died
Rise spectral where the fateful war-clouds lower,
And their pale hands the battle shall decide.