In a dreary room and fireless,
With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
Beside a flickering lamp;--
An old man, worn and wasted,
With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
At the moaning of the storm.
The casements, old and creaking,
Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
His treasures from his grasp,
And unseen fingers tight'ning
On his throat their icy clasp.
Again the strong wind rattled
The broken window-pane,
And the dying taper wavered
In the rude blast yet again--
For one brief instant wavered,
Then paled its sickly light,
And the shuddering wretch was shrouded
In impenetrable night.
The dull, grey light of morning
Illumed the mountain-height,
And Earth lay, cold and shiv'ring,
In the blanched, autumnal light,
But a sunbeam struggled faintly
Through the Miser's broken shed,
And lit the pale, set features
Of the still, unshrouded dead.
Pages:
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160