'Twas night—a dark and stormy night:
The wintry winds were high;
Within the fire was blazing bright
And as I trimmed the cheerful light
I heard a pleading cry.
"Come in," in hasty tones I said,
The door flew open wide—
The tempest roared—I shrieked with dread,
For, lo, a Spectre from the dead
Was standing by my side!
One icy hand was on mine own,
I would have turned and fled:
But ah! my limbs were chilled to stone,
As in a low, sepulchral tone
The sheeted Spectre said:
"It was a night like this I died,
Scorned by my fellow men;
To me a shelter was denied
But when they slumber by my side,
We shall, be equals then.
"I starved—and thou wast clothed and fed,
And had enough to spare;
Thou mightst have come with gentle tread,
And stood beside my dying bed,
And found a blessing there.
"But now my curse: nor mine alone—
The moment yet will be
When thou wilt stand before the Throne,
And hear it said in thunder tone:
'Thou didst it not to Me.'"
The light grew dim throughout the room,
Soon darkness reigned supreme,
But that pale Spectre from the tomb
Still eyed me through the dusky gloom,—
Thank God, 'twas but a dream!