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George Moses Horton (1798-?1883)
George Moses Horton (1798-?1883) The Fearful Traveller in the Haunted Castle Oft do I hear those windows ope And shut with dread surprise, And spirits murmur as they grope, But break not on the eyes. Still fancy spies the winding sheet, The phantom and the shroud, And bids the pulse of horror beat Throughout my ears aloud. Some unknown finger thumps the door, From one of faltering voice, Till some one seems to walk the floor With an alarming noise. The drum of horror holds her sound, Which will not let me sleep, When ghastly breezes float around, And hidden goblins creep. Methinks I hear some constant groan, The din of all the dead, While trembling thus I lie alone, Upon this restless bed. At length the blaze of morning broke On my impatient view, And truth or fancy told the joke, And bade the night adieu. ’Twas but the noise of prowling rats, Which ran with all their speed, Pursued in haste by hungry cats, Which on the vermin feed. The cat growl’d as she held her prey, Which shriek’d with all its might, And drove the- balm of sleep away Throughout the live-long night. Those creatures crumbling off the cheese Which on the table lay; Some cats, too quick the rogues to seize, With rumbling lost their prey. Thus man is often his own elf, Who makes the night his ghost, And shrinks with horror from himself, Which is to fear the most. Written 1820-65, published 1865
Often I hear those windows open And close with fearful surprise.
And spirits whisper as they search, But do not appear to the eyes. Still imagination sees the burial cloth, The ghost and the shroud,
And commands the heartbeat of fear To echo loudly in my ears. Some unknown hand knocks on the door, From a voice that trembles.
Until someone seems to tread the floor With a frightening sound. The drum of fear keeps its noise, Which prevents me from sleeping.
When eerie winds drift around, And hidden spirits sneak. I think I hear a constant moan, The noise of all the dead.
While I tremble and lie alone, On this restless bed. Finally, the light of morning broke On my eager sight.
And whether it was truth or imagination that joked, It said goodbye to the night. It was just the sound of scurrying rats, Which ran as fast as they could.
Chased by hungry cats, Which feed on the pests. The cat growled as she caught her prey, Which screamed with all its strength.
And drove the soothing balm of sleep away Throughout the entire night. Those creatures nibbling on the cheese That lay on the table;
Some cats, too quick to catch the thieves, Lost their prey with a rumble. Thus man is often his own enemy, Who makes the night his ghost.
And shrinks in fear from himself, Which is the greatest fear.