III.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
  And shouted as they ran,—­
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
  As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
  A melancholy man!

IV.

His hat was off, his vest apart,
  To catch heaven’s blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
  And his bosom ill at ease: 
So he lean’d his head on his hands, and read
  The book between his knees!

V.

Leaf after leaf he turn’d it o’er,
  Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that book
  In the golden eventide: 
Much study had made him very lean,
  And pale, and leaden-eyed.

VI.

At last he shut the ponderous tome,
  With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain’d the dusky covers close,
  And fix’d the brazen hasp: 
“Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
  And clasp it with a clasp!”

VII.

Then leaping on his feet upright,
  Some moody turns he took,—­
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
  And past a shady nook,—­
And, lo! he saw a little boy
  That pored upon a book!

VIII.

“My gentle lad, what is’t you read—­
  Romance or fairy fable? 
Of is it some historic page,
  Or kings and crowns unstable?”
The young boy gave an upward glance,—­
  “It is ‘The Death of Abel.’”

IX.

The Usher took six hasty strides,
  As smit with sudden pain,—­
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
  Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
  And talk’d with him of Cain;

X.

And, long since then, of bloody men,
  Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
  And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
  And murders done in caves;

XI.

And how the sprites of injured men
  Shriek upward from the sod,—­
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
  To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
  Are seen in dreams from God!

XII.

He told how murderers walk the earth
  Beneath the curse of Cain,—­
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
  And flames about their brain: 
For blood has left upon their souls
  Its everlasting stain!

XIII.

“And well,” quoth he, “I know, for truth,
  Their pangs must be extreme,—­
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,—­
  Who spill life’s sacred stream! 
For why?  Methought, last night, I wrought
  A murder, in a dream!”