Yule
by Vincent Cowley
In the dimness of a midnight drear,
While shadows danced and whispered fear,
Upon the eve of a sorrowful Yule,
I sat in my chamber, alone as a fool.
The flickering candle cast ghostly light,
As I pondered on visions that haunted the night.
While dreams of the morrow slipped softly away,
In the stillness, I languished, in despondent dismay.
When out of the gloom there arose a strange sound,
A shuddering whisper that stirred all around.
I sprang from my chair, my heart gripped with dread,
As echoes of laughter filled thoughts in my head.
There in the distance, a shadowy figure,
With laughter so hollow and eyes growing bigger.
The moonlight revealed a visage of fright—
’Twas a specter, a phantom, a harbinger of night.
“Come forth, come forth,” it beckoned with glee,
Bringing tidings of wonders that no soul should see.
“For this is the night when the restless shall roam,
To steal from your soul what you once called your own.”
From the chill of the void, a dark sleigh did appear,
Its steeds once the fallen, their countenance drear.
Eight phantoms, all racing with grim, ghostly grace,
Their eyes shone like embers, each one a dark face.
“On, Nightshade! On, Hades! On, Terror and Gloom!
To the eaves of each dwelling, to the silence of doom!
Now dash away, dash away, fly through the air,
Let not a soul waken, nor whisper a prayer!”
As dry leaves that before the wild tempest fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, vanish and die;
So up to the rooftops the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of dread, and dark shadows too.
And then, in the stillness, I heard on the roof
The sound of their hoofbeats, a chilling proof.
As I drew in my head, with my heart filled with fright,
Down the chimney the specter descended, cloaked in night.
He was clad all in shadows, from his head to his feet,
And his garments were tarnished with ashes and heat;
A bundle of phantoms he had slung on his back,
And he looked like a revenant borne from the black.
His eyes—how they burned with unholy delight!
His smile was a wound in the shroud of the night.
His mouth, curled in torment, bespoke no reprieve,
And his beard dripped with shadows that none could believe.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke that encircled him swirled like a wreath;
He had a broad face, but his laughter was hollow,
And it echoed in chambers where dark phantoms follow.
He was gaunt and grim, a ghastly old sprite,
and I quivered in fear at the depth of his night;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Extinguish all joy and filled me with dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his toil,
And filled all the stockings with dreams dark as oil.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
He vanished in shadows, as a cold wind arose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a shriek,
And away they did glide, like shadows that creep.
But I heard him exclaim, as he vanished from sight,
“Wretched Yule to all, and to all a dark night!”
