Ii

When slow the twilight settles o'er its roof, And from the haggard oaks unto its door The rain comes, wild as one who rides before His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof; And in each window's gusty curtain-woof The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'er Some tale of love and crime; and, on the floor, The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof:-- From hall to hall and haunted stair to stair, Through all the house, a dread, that drags me to'ard The ancient dusk of that avoided room, Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair, And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom, Waking the ghost of that old harpsichord.