The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And thro' its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution. The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball, Touch'd 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 turn'd, 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, Lock'd 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 ev'ry 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 remain'd, or tiny mouse, To squeak behind the panel. Huge drops roll'd 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 quicken'd; While on the oaken table coats of dust Perennially had thicken'd. 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! PART III. 'Tis hard for human actions to account, Whether from reason or from impulse only-- But some internal prompting bade me mount The gloomy stairs and lonely. Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and cold, With odors as from bones and relics carnal, Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould, The chapel vault, or charnel. Those dreary stairs, where with the sounding stress Of ev'ry step so many echoes blended, The mind, with dark misgivings, fear'd to guess How many feet ascended. The tempest with its spoils had drifted in, Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted, As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin, With leaves that rankly rotted. The air was thick--and in the upper gloom The bat--or something in its shape--was winging; And on the wall, as chilly as a tomb, The Death's-Head moth was clinging.