In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, nightly shadows breed. Upon this dreary night, the moon did rise o'er yonder haunted glen. There dwelled Lady Morwen, cursed maiden with whispers of a specter's vow in ear. The clock struck twelve, and the air turned chill, stirring the ethereal mists. What shade is this that haunts yon ancient tomb? 'Tis the ghost of Lord Alaric, lost to time. Each step within the crumbling halls echoed despair, his visage wrought in melancholic glow. The lady dared venture forth, lantern trembling in hand, seeking to break this nocturnal curse. Specter dwindled as dawn crept onward, yet heavy on their heart lay the solemn melody, foreboding as the deepening night.