And marched in search of their diurnal food In undisturbed procession.

As undisturbed as the prehensile cell
Of moth or maggot, or the spider's tissue ;
For never foot upon that threshold fell,
To enter or to issue.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted.

Howbeit, the door I pushed, or so dreamed,

I

Which slowly, slowly gaped, the hinges creaking

With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed
That Time himself was speaking.

But Time was dumb within that mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners

That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners.

Those tattered flags, that with the opened

door

Seemed the old wave of battle to remember, While fallen fragments danced upon the floor Like dead leaves in December.

The startled bats flew out, - bird after bird, The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seemed to mock the cry that she had heard

Some dying victim utter !

A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof,
And up the stair, and further still and further,
Till in some ringing chamber far aloof
It ceased its tale of murther!

Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, The banner shuddered, and the ragged streamer,

All things the horrid tenor of the sound
Acknowledged with a tremor.

The antlers, where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branches,

Or as the stag had trembled when he felt
The bloodhound at his haunches.

The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And through its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution.

The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball,

Touched by some impulse occult or mechanic;
And nameless beetles ran along the wall
In universal panic.

The subtle spider, that from overhead Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror.

The very stains and fractures on the wall
Assuming features solemn and terrific,
Hinted some tragedy of that old hall,
Locked up in hieroglyphic.

Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt,

Wherefore amongst those flags so dull and

livid,

The banner of the Bloody Hand shone out, So ominously vivid.

Some key to that inscrutable appeal,
Which made the very frame of Nature quiver;
And every thrilling nerve and fibre feel
So ague-like a shiver.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

If but a rat had lingered in the house,
To lure the thought into a social channel!
But not a rat remained, or tiny mouse,
To squeak behind the panel.

Huge drops rolled down the walls, as if they wept ;

And where the cricket used to chirp so shrilly, The toad was squatting, and the lizard crept On that damp hearth and chilly.

For years no cheerful blaze had sparkled there, Or glanced on coat of buff or knightly metal ; The slug was crawling on the vacant chair, The snail upon the settle.

The floor was redolent of mould and must, The fungus in the rotten seams had quickened;

While on the oaken table coats of dust

Perennially had thickened.

No mark of leathern jack or metal can,

No cup

no horn

no hospitable token,—

All social ties between that board and man

Had long ago been broken.

There was so foul a rumor in the air,

The shadow of a Presence so atrocious;

No human creature could have feasted there, Even the most ferocious.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!