Low Barometer

The south-wind strengthens to a gale, 
Across the moon the clouds fly fast, 
The house is smitten as with a flail, 
The chimney shudders to the blast. 

On such a night, when Air has loosed 
Its guardian grasp on blood and brain, 
Old terrors then of god or ghost 
Creep from their caves to life again; 

And Reason kens he herits in 
A haunted house. Tenants unknown 
Assert their squalid lease of sin 
With earlier title than his own. 

Unbodied presences, the pack'd 
Pollution and remorse of Time, 
Slipp'd from oblivion reënact 
The horrors of unhouseld crime. 

Some men would quell the thing with prayer 
Whose sightless footsteps pad the floor, 
Whose fearful trespass mounts the stair 
Or burts the lock'd forbidden door. 

Some have seen corpses long interr'd 
Escape from hallowing control, 
Pale charnel forms—nay ev'n have heard 
The shrilling of a troubled soul, 

That wanders till the dawn hath cross'd 
The dolorous dark, or Earth hath wound 
Closer her storm-spredd cloke, and thrust 
The baleful phantoms underground.