“He stretched one pale hand to her
As though he would to touch her.
She hopped and skipped across the floor.
‘Young man,’ says she, ‘I won’t have you.

“‘Remember, ’member in the town,
’Twas in the tavern drinking,
You drank a health to the ladies all
But you slighted Barb’ra Allen.’

“He turned his face toward the wall,
His back upon his darling.
‘I know I shall see you no more,
So good-bye, Barb’ra Allen.’

“As she was going to her home,
She heard the church bell tolling.
She looked to the east and looked to the west,
And saw the funeral coming.

“‘Oh hand me down that corpse of clay
That I may look upon it.
I might have saved that young man’s life,
If I had done my duty.

“‘Oh mother, mother, make my bed
Oh make it long and narrow.
Sweet William died for me today,
I shall die for him tomorrow.’

“Sweet William died on a Saturday night,
And Barb’ra Allen on a Sunday.
The old lady died for the love of them both,
She died on Easter morning.”

As I listened, with eyes still sealed, to the ravishing strains of this grave and stately ballad, a mysterious image began to rise up like a ghostly revenant from the shadowy depths of my overwrought brain. At first, this strange yet tantalizing shape was too dimly indistinct—too faint and faraway—for me to recognize. But as the melodious voice of my dearest Virginia continued to trill, the shape appeared to draw closer—its features grow clearer—until a radiant female countenance shone brightly before my wonderstruck mind’s eye.

Though I had not set eyes on its living counterpart since my earliest childhood, the face that now loomed before me was as familiar to me as my own, for I had contemplated its painted likeness a thousand—nay, ten thousand—times in the course of my existence. It was the visage of my blessed mother, the celebrated actress Eliza Poe, known to me solely through a delicately wrought miniature that was, of all my earthly possessions, by far the most precious.

What—I sat there wondering—had so suddenly evoked the resplendent image of my long-deceased mother at this very moment? After briefly reflecting on this matter, I was forced to conclude that there was something in the nature of Virginia’s performance that had called the heart-piercing vision to mind. Perhaps, I surmised, my dear, lamented mother—whose musical, as well as histrionic gifts, had brought her acclamation from critics and theatre-lovers throughout the country—used to lull me to sleep in her arms with this very melody during that all-too-brief period when I had enjoyed, for the only time in my poor, troubled existence, the unutterable bliss of her sweet, maternal presence.