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.