Only the lightning showed the door
That like two cats we darted for;
It almost gave a man a qualm
To find the house inside so calm.
I sloshed all dripping up the stair,
Up to an attic room a-glare
With candle-shine and lightning-flare--
With little draughts that moved its hair
A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare,
Rigid, huddling in a chair.
I thought at first the thing was dead
Until the eyes slid in its head.
It seemed as if the Banshee storm
Knocked screaming for his withered form;
It shrieked and whistled like a parrot,
Clucking and stuttering through the garret.
With-out, the mailed hands of hail
Battered the casements, and the gale
About his low roof shuddered, sighing,
As if it knew that he was dying.
It breathed like waiting beasts outside,
While soft feet made the shingles slide.
Then, like a blow upon the cheek,
The mummy's voice began to speak:
_'Give me a priest! I'm going to die!'_
The Banshee wind took up the cry:
'Give him a priest, he's going to die!'
The old house seemed to rock with laughter,
Shaking its sides and every rafter.
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