THE TOMBLESS MAN. A DREAM. By Delta. I. I woke from sleep at midnight, all was dark, Solemn, and silent, an unbroken calm; It was a fearful vision, and had made A mystical impression on my mind; For clouds lay o'er the ocean of my thoughts In vague and broken masses, strangely wild; And grim imagination wander'd on 'Mid gloomy yew-trees in a churchyard old, And mouldering shielings of the eyeless hills, And snow-clad pathless moors on moonless nights, And icebergs drifting from the sunless Pole, And prostrate Indian villages, when spent The rage of the hurricane has pass'd away, Leaving a landscape desolate with death; And as I turn'd me to my vanish'd dream, Clothed in its drapery of gloom, it rose Upon my spirit, dreary as before. II. Alone--alone--a desolate dreary wild, Herbless and verdureless; low swampy moss, Where tadpoles grew to frogs, for leagues begirt My solitary path. Nor sight nor sound Of moving life, except a grey curlew-- As shrieking tumbled on the timid bird, Aye glancing backward with its coal-black eye, Even as by imp invisible pursued-- Was seen or heard; the last low level rays Of sunset, gilded with a blood-red glow That melancholy moor, with its grey stones And stagnant water-pools. Aye floundering on, And on, I stray'd, finding no pathway, save The runlet of a wintry stream, begirt With shelvy barren rocks; around, o'erhead, Yea every where, in shapes grotesque and grim, Towering they rose, encompassing my path, As 'twere in savage mockery. Lo, a chasm Yawning, and bottomless, and black! Beneath I heard the waters in their sheer descent Descending down, and down; and further down Descending still, and dashing: Now a rush, And now a roar, and now a fainter fall, And still remoter, and yet finding still, For the white anguish of their boiling whirl, No resting-place. Over my head appear'd, Between the jagged black rifts bluely seen, Sole harbinger of hope, a patch of sky, Of deep, clear, solemn sky, shrining a star Magnificent; that, with a holy light, Glowing and glittering, shone into the heart As 'twere an angel's eye. Entranced I stood, Drinking the beauty of that gem serene, How long I wist not; but, when back to earth Sank my prone eyes--I knew not where I was-- Again the scene had shifted, and the time, From midnight to the hour when earliest dawn Gleams in the orient, and with inky lines The trees seem painted on the girding sky. III. A solemn hour!--so silent, that the sound Even of a falling leaflet had been heard, Was that, wherein, with meditative step, With uncompanion'd step, measured and slow, And wistful gaze, that to the left, the right, Was often turn'd, as if in secret dread Of something horrible that must be met-- Of unseen evil not to be eschew'd-- Up a long vista'd avenue I wound, Untrodden long, and overgrown with moss. It seem'd an entrance to the hall of gloom; Grey twilight, in the melancholy shade Of the hoar branches, show'd the tufted grass With globules spangled of the fine night-dew-- So fine--that even a midge's tiny tread Had caused them trickle down. Funereal yews Notch'd with the growth of centuries, stretching round Dismal in aspect, and grotesque in shape, Pair after pair, were ranged: where ended these, Girdling an open semicircle, tower'd A row of rifted plane-trees, inky-leaved With cinnamon-colour'd barks; and, in the midst, Hidden almost by their entwining boughs, An unshut gateway, musty and forlorn; Its old supporting pillars roughly rich With sculpturings quaint of intermingled flowers. IV. Each pillar held upon its top an urn, Serpent-begirt; each urn upon its front A face--and such a face! I turn'd away-- Then gazed again--'twas not to be forgot:-- There was a fascination in the eyes-- Even in their stony stare; like the ribb'd sand Of ocean was the eager brow; the mouth Had a hyena grin; the nose, compress'd With curling sneer, of wolfish cunning spake; O'er the lank temples, long entwisted curls Adown the scraggy neck in masses fell; And fancy, aided by the time and place, Read in the whole the effigies of a fiend-- Who, and what art thou? ask'd my beating heart-- And but the silence to my heart replied! That entrance pass'd, I found a grass-grown court, Vast, void, and desolate--and there a house, Baronial, grim, and grey, with Flemish roof High-pointed, and with aspect all forlorn:-- Four-sided rose the towers at either end Of the long front, each coped with mouldering flags: Up from the silent chimneys went no smoke; And vacantly the deep-brow'd windows stared, Like eyeballs dead to daylight. O'er the gate Of entrance, to whose folding-doors a flight Of steps converging led, startled I saw, Oh, horrible! the same reflected face As that on either urn--but gloomier still In shadow of the mouldering architrave. V. I would have turn'd me back--I would have fled From that malignant, yet half-syren smile; But magic held me rooted to the spot, And some inquisitive horror led me on.-- Entering I stood beneath the spacious dome Of a round hall, vacant, save here and there, Where from the panelings, in mouldy shreds, Hung what was arras loom-work; weather-stains In mould appear'd on the mosaic floors, Of marble black and white--or what was white, For time had yellow'd all; and opposite, High on the wall, within a crumbling frame Of tarnish'd gold, scowl'd down a pictured form In the habiliments of bygone days-- With ruff, and doublet slash'd, and studded belt-- 'Twas the same face--the Gorgon curls the same, The same lynx eye, the same peak-bearded chin, And the same nose, with sneering upward curl. VI. Again I would have turned to flee--again