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He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o’erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open
doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
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;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old es.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires ; 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
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies
crowd Into the realm of mystery and night,
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and
bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE.
In the village churchyard she lies,
No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
But their dust is white as hers.
Was she a lady of high degree,
And foolish pomp of this world of ours?