Strange sounds along the blast were heard,
Strange figures in the air appear'd,
Circling the lamp-lights lurid blue,
The stench of burning sulphur flew ;
Even that witch-subservient race
That watch domestic vermin's trace,
Bewitch'd by wild and potent charm,
Slunk from the rat hole in alarm,
In wild assemblage, on the green,
With tails erect, were dimly seen,
And rising from the troop, their yell
Hail'd some embassador from hell.
Unknown to some the subtle wile
The tempter uses to deceive;
I know there are, whose doubting smile
Will scarce my humble tale believe;
Let such, from old experience grey,
Receive conviction of my lay.
Scarce lives a single matron sage,
Benping beneath the weight of age,
But still in memory retains
Some mystic tale of clanking chains,
Of forms that mock the touch, and seem
Of texture like the lunar beam;
Of deaths foretold, of orgies dark
That quench'd of life the feeble spark,
And bade the dark sepulchral gloom
Unhallow'd meteors illume.
Time from my memory's survey
Has not eras'd the lines away,
Printed when boyhood's careless hour
Gave all the soul to fancy's power;
The tales my aged aunt would tell,
Till stretch'd with awe, each bristling hair
Stood self-supported, firm and fair;
And every stiff'ning joint betray'd
The effect her wondrous story made.
The good old lady, sure as eve
Came on, the wondrous tale would weave,
Fast as her fingers wound the yarn,
The story of the haunted barn,
Where, loosely wrapt around with hay,
A lifeless corpse the cobler lay;
And sure as since that night returns,
His meteor lamp at midnight burns,
There, from the gable end, the sound
Of smitten lapstone rings around,
Till from his nightly work there grows
A pair of most infernal shoes.
Stamp'd by the hand of nature plain,
Such facts, in witness strong, remain;
Deeply engraven on the heart
They rest, till soul and body part.
Signet of truth, by heaven design'd,
Implanted in the infant mind,
No shocks of rolling years impair
The testimonial written there.
Why shrinks the peasant from the spade
The sexton uses in his trade?
Why shuns the soul the fearful spot
Where the lone murderer's relics rot?
Why, when our footsteps wander round
The suicide's unhallow'd mound,
Does every lively hair erect
Conviction of the truth detect?
Why do our flagging veins distil
In streams so cold the vital rill?
There dwelt, as ancient story goes,
At Salem, then, a wondrous man,
Whose lips no question could unclose,
Whose darksome thoughts no soul could scan.
Still on the ground he bent his eye,
Regardless of the passer by;
Even while he steer'd the reeking plough,
Or midst potatoes swung the hoe,
Still on that sad dejected face,
The self-same look might stranger trace,
Deep fix'd, and still that look betray'd
Of fiendish dream the lurid shade.
Save when some broad unmeaning grin
Drew upward his projecting chin,
Or when some laugh demoniac drew
The corners of his mouth askew,
It seem'd as if the fiend Despair
And suicidal thought was there.
Mid merry group, upon the green,
His squalid form was seldom seen;
To him the joys of husking brought
No freedom from distemper'd thought;
Though to his lot the redden'd ear
Oft fell, the damsels thought it queer,
The penalty he ne'er would claim,
Excuse he never chose to frame,
But still preferr'd to beauty's kiss
The whisky draught's heart cheering bliss.
Often he sought the lonely wood,
And wander'd on in musing mood;
Or where the stream dash'd wild and strong,
Its rocky pointed bed along,
Oft would he watch, with stedfast eye,
The rippling current roaring by ;
There, patient, with suspended hook,
Drifted his line along the brook,
Although tradition doth not say
He often snar'd the finny prey.
There would he wake his dismal tone
Of song, by few but wizards known;
Such song as music might defy,
And all the rules of harmony;
Such dismal verse as mortal man
Might never wish to hear again.
A tatter'd blanket, round him thrown,
Was all the wanderer claim'd his own;
There might the curious eye survey
Green, red, and yellow, black, and grey,
In strange and uncouth figures mixt,
With gaping chinks display'd betwixt,
Through which the kindly winds of heaven
To cool his feverish skin were driven,
And, circling round his parchment form,
Enure him to the wintry storm.
To such a form to bend the knee,
Could not be deem'd idolatry,*
For ne'er did ocean, heaven, or earth,
His likeness yield a natural birth.
Like pilgrim from the holy land,
Barefoot he press'd the pebbly sand,
And never seem'd his feet to rue
The want luxurious of a shoe;
Like pilgrim, too, his slender waist
A twisted rope-yarn cord embrac❜d.
Such figure strange attention drew,
And mutter'd whispers darker grew;
Where'er the luckless wanderer past,
His heels a mob attendant grac'd;
Full oft the taunting jibe, and jeer,
And hoot insulting, met his ear,
Mixt with such compliment as oft
The counterfeiting wight, aloft,
See the Second Commandment.
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