Of the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell,
And solemn winds already chant thy dirge—
Give Earth its Heaven, or Hell a deeper Hell!
"Speak! or I curse thee here!
I'll call it yea if but a withered twig,
Tossed by the wind, falls rattling on the roof;
I'll call it yea, if e'en a shutter creak,
Breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof!
"Too late! The midnight bell—
The crawling shadow at its witching flood,