"This massy trunk that lies along, Who digs the grave, The man who spreads the pall, "The tall abounding elm that grows That nestle on its crown. "And well the abounding elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, The phantom ends the shade is gone; And bounding through the golden fern The thrush's mate beside her sits And pipes a merry lay; The dove is in the evergreens; The fly-bird flutters up and down, The gentle hind and dappled fawn Each harmless furred and feathered thing Is glad, and not afraid - A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, This warm and living frame shall find That mystic tree which breathed to me That sometimes murmured overhead, And sometimes underground; Within that shady avenue Where lofty elms abound. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. A ROMANCE. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old, But something ails it now: the place is curst." 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; No human figure stirred, to go or come; No face looked forth from shut or open casement: No chimney smoked — there was no sign of home From parapet to basement. With shattered panes the grassy court was starred; The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after; And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barred With naked beam and rafter. O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; The flower grew wild and rankly as the weed, And vagrant plants of parasitic breed But, gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm, No heart was there to heed the hour's duration; All times and tides were lost in one long term Of stagnant desolation. The wren had built within the porch, she found The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted through The shrubby clumps, and frisked, and sat, and vanished, But leisurely and bold, as if he knew His enemy was banished. The wary crow, the pheasant from the woods, Lulled 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 mocked the human tongue; Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not pardon, And its deserted garden. The beds were all untouched by hand or tool; |