HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, The spirit-world around this world of sense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires s; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud So from the world of spirits there descends Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers? L Who shall tell us? No one speaks; No color shoots into those cheeks, Either of anger or of pride, At the rude question we have asked; By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter ?—And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors? Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own short-comings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors! |