On ev'ry lip a speechless horror dwelt ; On ev'ry brow the burthen of affliction The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt The House's malediction.
Such earnest woe their features overcast,
They might have stirr'd, or sigh'd, or wept, or spoken; But, save the hollow moaning of the blast,
The stillness was unbroken.
No other sound or stir of life was there,
Except my steps in solitary clamber,
From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair, From chamber into chamber.
Deserted rooms of luxury and state,
That old magnificence had richly furnish'd With pictures, cabinets of ancient date, And carvings gilt and burnish'd.
Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art With scripture history, or classic fable; But all had faded, save one ragged part, Where Cain was slaying Abel.
The silent waste of mildew and the moth Had marr'd the tissue with a partial ravage; But undecaying frown'd upon the cloth Each feature stern and savage.
The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt; Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd and duller; But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out With vehemence of colour!
The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token, Projected from the casement's painted pane, Where all beside was broken,
The BLOODY HAND significant of crime, That glaring on the old heraldic banner, Had kept its crimson unimpair'd by time, In such a wondrous manner!
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!
The Death Watch tick'd behind the panel'd oak, Inexplicable tremors shook the arras,
And echoes strange and mystical awoke,
The fancy to embarrass.
Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But thro' one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, That Chamber is the Ghostly!
Across the door no gossamer festoon
Swung pendulous-no web-no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon About its nooks and hinges.
The spider shunn'd the interdicted room, The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish'd, And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom The very midge had vanish'd.
One lonely ray that glanced upon a Bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain, To show the BLOODY HAND in burning red Embroider'd on the curtain.
And yet no gory stain was on the quilt- The pillow in its place had slowly rotted; The floor alone retain'd the trace of guilt, Those boards obscurely spotted.
Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence With mazy doubles to the grated casement-- Oh what a tale they told of fear intense, Of horror and amazement !
What human creature in the dead of night Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance? Had sought the door, the window in his flight, Striving for dear existence?
What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room Its mortal frame had violently quitted? Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom, A ghostly Shadow flitted.
Across the sunbeam, and along the wall, But painted on the air so very dimly, It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all, Or portrait frowning grimly.
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!
Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast, And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,- Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast His net into the deep, which doth provide Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?
The sea is bright with morning,
Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, For it is early hoisted, like a mark
For the low sun to shoot at with his pale And level beams: All round the shadowy bark The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale Swells in her canvas, till the waters show The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.
Then look abaft-(for thou canst understand That phrase)—and there he sitteth at the stern, Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd And honest countenance that he will turn To look upon us, with a quiet gaze- As we are passing on our several ways.
So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.
His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored With fishes-fishes swam in all his dreams, And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky, For him to catch in meshes of his eye.
For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart, And saw the future with a boy's brave thought, No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part In his bright visions-ay, before he caught His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart,
And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd, But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd
And sow'd his seed afresh.-Many foul blights Perish'd his hard won gains-yet he had plann'd No schemes of too extravagant delights- No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand- But a small humble home, and loving nights, Such as his honest heart and earnest hand
Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy? Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.
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