# The Ghost-Seer

First published March 8, 1845 in The Broadway Journal.
Ye, who passing graves by night, Glance not to the left or right, Lest a spirit should arise, Cold and white, to freeze your eyes, Some weak phantom, which your doubt Shapes upon the dark without From the dark within, a guess At the spirit's deathlessness, Which ye entertain with fear In your self-build dungeon here, Where ye sell your God-given lives Just for gold to buy you gyves,— Ye without a shudder meet In the city's noonday street, Spirits sadder and more dread Than from out the clay have fled, Buried, beyond hope of light, In the body's haunted night! See ye not that woman pale? There are bloodhounds on her trail! Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean, (For the soul their scent is keen,) Want and Sin, and Sin is last, They have followed far and fast; Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, Sin awakened with a growl. Ah, poor girl! she had a right To a blessing from the light; Title-deeds to sky and earth God gave to her at her birth; But, before they were enjoyed, Poverty had made them void, And had drunk the sunshine up From all nature's ample cup, Leaving her a first-born's share In the dregs of darkness there. Often, on the sidewalk bleak, Hungry, all alone, and weak, She has seen, in night and storm, Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm, Which, outside the window-glass, Doubled all the cold, alas! Till each ray that on her fell Stabbed her like an icicle, And she almost loved the wail Of the bloodhounds on her trail. Till the floor becomes her bier, She shall feel their pantings near, Close upon her very heels, Spite of all the din of wheels; Shivering on her pallet poor, She shall hear them at the door Whine and scratch to be let in, Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!
Hark! that rustle of a dress, Stiff with lavish costliness! Here comes one whose cheek would flush But to have her garment brush 'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin Wove the weary broidery in, Bending backward from her toil, Lest her tears the silk might soil, And, in midnights chill and murk, Stitched her life into the work, Shaping from her bitter thought Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, Satirizing her despair With the emblems woven there. Little doth the wearer heed Of the heart-break in the brede; A hyena by her side Skulks, down-looking, — it is Pride. He digs for her in the earth, Where lie all her claims of birth, With his foul paws rooting o'er Some long-buried ancestor, Who perhaps a statue won By the ill deeds he had done, By the innocent blood he shed, By the desolation spread Over happy villages, Blotting out the smile of peace. There walks Judas, he who sold Yesterday his Lord for gold, Sold God's presence in his heart For a proud step in the mart; He hath dealt in flesh and blood; At the bank his name is good; At the bank and only there, 'Tis a marketable ware. In his eyes that stealthy glean Was not learned of sky or stream, But it has the cold, hard glint Of new dollars from the mint. Open now your spirit's eyes, Look through that poor clay disguise Which has thickened, day by day, Till it keeps all light at bay, And his soul in pitchy gloom Gropes about its narrow tomb, From whose dank and slimy walls Drop by drop the horror falls. Look! a serpent lank and cold Hugs his spirit fold on fold; From his heart, all day and night, It doth suck God's blessed light. Drink it will, and drink it must, Till the cup holds naught but dust; All day long he hears it hiss, Writhing in its fiendish bliss; All night long he sees its eyes Flicker with foul ecstasies, As the spirit ebbs away Into the absorbing clay. Who is he that skulks, afraid Of the trust he has betrayed, Shuddering if perchance a gleam Of old nobleness should stream Through the pent, unwholesome room, Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom, Spirit sad beyond the rest By more instinct for the best? 'Tis a poet who was sent For a bad world's punishment, By compelling it to see Golden glimpses of To Be, By compelling it to hear Songs that prove the angels near; Who was sent to be the tongue Of the weak and spirit-wrung, Whence the fiery-winged Despair In men's shrinking eyes might flare. 'Tis our hope doth fashion us To base use or glorious: He who might have been a lark Of Truth's morning, from the dark Raining down melodious hope Of a freer, broader scope, Aspirations, prophecies, Of the spirit's full sunrise, Chose to be a bird of night, That, with eyes refusing light, Hooted from some hollow tree Of the world's idolatry. 'Tis his punishment to hear Sweep of eager pinions near, And his own vain wings to feel Drooping downward to his heel, All their grace and import lost, Burdening his weary ghost: Ever walking by his side He must see his angel guide, Who at intervals doth turn Looks on him so sadly stern With such ever-now surprise Of hushed anguish in her eyes, That it seems the light of day From around him shrinks away, Or drops blunted from the wall Built around him by his fall. Then the mountains, whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning east their faces lit, Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim an dull, They the gladsome tidings bring Of the sunlight's hastening: Never can these hills of bliss Be o'erclimbed by feet like his!
But enough! Oh, do not dare From the next the veil to tear, Woven of station, trade, or dress, More obscene than nakedness, Wherewith the plausible culture drapes Fallen Nature's myriad shapes! Let us rather love to mark How the unextinguished spark Still gleams through the thin disguise Of our customs, pomps, and lies, And, not seldom blown to flame, Vindicates its ancient claim.