The Beleaguered City Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
        Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
        Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
        With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
        The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
        The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
        The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
        No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
        As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
        Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
        On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
        The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
        The ghastly host was dead.