But the Usher sat remote from all--
A melancholy man!

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!

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanc'd 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.

At last, he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp;
"O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"

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!