Yet nothing I as yet descried,
My hair stood all on end.
My breath was short, I'm sure my eye
Was dim, so was the light,
I thought that I that hour should die,
With sad and sore affright.
And then came o'er me—what came o'er?
Some spectre grim I'll bet,
O tell me!—why at every pore—
A very heavy sweat.