Within that casement, narrow and high, In his secret lair, where none may spy, Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care, And the thin grey locks of his failing hair Have left his little bald pate all bare; For his full-bottom'd wig Hangs, bushy and big, On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair. Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter'd his hose, His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose, Flowers of remarkable size and hue, Flowers such as Eden never knew; —And there, by many a sparkling heap Of the good red gold, The tale is told What powerful spell avails to keep That care-worn man from his needful sleep!
Haply, he deems no eye can see As he gloats on his treasure greedily,— The shining store Of glittering ore, The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore, And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea,— But there's one that watches as well as he; For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by, On his truckle-bed lieth a little Foot-page, A boy who's uncommonly sharp of his age, Like young Master Horner, Who erst in a corner Sat eating a Christmas pie: And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards, Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards!
There's a voice in the air, There's a step on the stair, The old man starts in his cane-back'd chair; At the first faint sound He gazes around, And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound. Then half arose From beside his toes His little pug-dog with his little pug nose, But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff, That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff, For low, yet clear, Now fall on the ear, —Where once pronounced for ever they dwell,— The unholy words of the Dead Man's spell! "Open lock To the Dead Man's knock! Fly bolt, and bar, and band! Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve, At the spell of the Dead Man's hand! Sleep all who sleep!—Wake all who wake!— But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!"
Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails, Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails. Heavy and harsh the hinges creak, Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week; The door opens wide as wide may be, And there they stand, That murderous band, Lit by the light of the Glorious Hand, By one!—by two!—by three!
They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass'd through the hall, Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall; The very snore froze In his very snub nose, You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last When the GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him past! E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat At the top of its speed to escape from the cat, Though half dead with affright, Paused in its flight; And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing Lay crouch'd as a statue in act to spring! And now they are there, On the head of the stair, And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare! —I really don't think any money would bribe Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe, Or the wild, wild glare Of that old man's eye, His dumb despair, And deep agony.
The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold, Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold; They dream not—ah, happier they!—that the knife, Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life; It falls;—the frail thread of their being is riven, They dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given.— But, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe, Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow!— —Enough!—let's pass over as fast as we can The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!
But fancy poor Hugh, Aghast at the view, Powerless alike to speak or to do! In vain doth he try To open the eye That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink, Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink!— No!—for all that this world can give or refuse, I would not be now in that little boy's shoes, Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's! —'Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall He has peep'd through so long, is so narrow and small! Wailing voices, sounds of woe Such as follow departing friends, That fatal night round Tappington go, Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends: Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good, Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood.
'Tis early dawn—the morn is grey, And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away, And all things betoken a very fine day; But, while the lark her carol is singing, Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing! Upstarting all Great and small, Each one who's found within Tappington Hall, Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom, All seek at once that old Gentleman's room; And there, on the floor, Drench'd in its gore, A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view, Carotid and jugular both cut through! And there, by its side, 'Mid the crimson tide, Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years; Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears Are coursing each other round and big, And he's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig! Alas! and alack for his staunching!—'tis plain, As anatomists tell us, that never again Shall life revisit the foully slain, When once they've been cut through the jugular vein.