THE HAUNTED HOUSE. A ROMANCE. PART I. SOME dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Yet others of our most romantic schemes It might be only on enchanted ground; A residence for woman, child, and man, Unhinged the iron gates half open hung, No dog was at the threshold, great or small; Not one domestic feature. No human figure stirr'd, to go or come, No face look'd forth from shut or open casement; With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd; O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed, But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm, No heart was there to heed the hour's duration; The wren had built within the Porch, she found The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted thro' The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and sat, and vanished But leisurely and bold, as if he knew His enemy was banish'd. The wary crow,—the pheasant from the woods- Lull'd by the still and everlasting sameness. The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, The moping heron, motionless and stiff, No sound was heard except, from far away, But Echo never mock'd the human tongue; And its deserted Garden. The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool; The vine unpruned, and the neglected peach, Droop'd from the wall with which they used to grapple ; And on the kanker'd tree, in easy reach, Rotted the golden apple. But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground, For over all there hung a cloud of fear, The pear and quince lay squander'd on the grass: The mould was purple with unheeded showers Of bloomy plums-a Wilderness it was Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers! The marigold amidst the nettles blew, The gourd embraced the rose bush in its ramble. The holly-hock and bramble G O very, very dreary is the room Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles, But House of Woe, and hearse, and sable pall, The centipede along the threshold crept, The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood, As undisturb'd as the prehensile cell To enter or to issue. O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, Howbeit, the door I push'd-or so I dream'd 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 : |