That mystic moth, which, with a sense profound Of all unholy presence, augurs truly; And with a grim significance flits round The taper burning bluely. Such omens in the place there seem'd to be, At ev'ry crooked turn, or on the landing, The straining eyeball was prepared to see Some Apparition standing. 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! Yet no portentous Shape the sight amazed; Each object plain, and tangible, and valid; But from their tarnish'd frames dark Figures gazed, And Faces spectre-pallid. Not merely with the mimic life that lies Within the compass of Art's simulation; Their souls were looking thro' their painted eyes With awful speculation. 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 color! 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.