The startled bats flew out,--bird after bird,-- The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seem'd 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 shudder'd, and the ragged streamer; All things the horrid tenor of the sound Acknowledged with a tremor.

The antlers, where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirr'd as the tempest stirs the forest branches, Or as the stag had trembled when he felt The blood-hound at his haunches.

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.

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.

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.