Poems (Chitwood)/The Old Still-House
THE OLD STILL-HOUSE.
It stands by the river side, The still-house drear and brown, The roof is dark, and the chimney wide Hath partly fallen down.The owl hoots there in the dismal night,He looks like a ghost in the moonbeams white;And his ghostly bride, with her round, large eyes,Folds her dark wings and hoarsely cries, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts walk, do not you?"
Darker and still more dark The shadows gather fast, And noiseless steps and tall forms stark Move like a shadow past:Old age comes first, with thin white hair,And blear and scar on his brow so bare;And the old owl stops his chant to look;But his mate croaks on from her mossy nook, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts haunt, do not you?"
There's youth, once young and strong, And manhood staid and wise; But tales of sin, and woe, and wrong, Flash from their bloodshot eyes!But scowls are on each once fair face,And only the tempter's mark you traceOn the brow where kisses were wont to rest;But the owl sings on from her mossy nest, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts hant, do not you?"
Around the festal board Gather the ghastly band, And up to the brim the rum is poured By many a palsied hand.And each one drinks with horrid cheer,And each one speaks with a haughty sneer,And laugh, and jest, and oath are heard;But the owl chants on, with heart unstirred, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts dwell, do not you?"
Then cometh another band: There is Woman, robed in white, And kindly the touch of a gentle hand Rests on each shoulder light.The mother, the sister, the wife are there—The daughter with white lips moved in prayer;And the owl stops with a stave so grim,That his mate half pauses to look at him: "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts walk, do not you?"
There is childhood, fair and pure As the first wild flowers of spring. With a trusting love that will endure Thro' wrong, thro" everything:And round the neck are soft arms thrown;But not the tear, the kiss, the moan,Can melt the heart where the serpent lies!And the owl chants on with calm, cold eyes, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts haunt, do not you?"
In vain—it is all in vain; Tears cease in mute despair, What power can whisper of hope again?— All, all is anguish there;And the slight forms sink 'neath the heavy blow.Lips pale, and faces are white as snow,And blood-drops stain the golden hair,—And the owl's voice dies in echo there, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts dwell, do not you?"
The night hath lost her crown, Behind the forest green— Softly the young moon hath gone down To slumbers most serene.The forms fade out in the empty air,And the owl sits mute with a solemn stare,Then starts and flies with heavy wings,While his ghastly bride but once more sings, "Too whoot! too whoo! I know where ghosts dwell, do not you?"