Her palm grew clammy with the slimy ooze
That fester'd on the walls in sick'ning streams,
As on the pallid brow Death's icy dews
Gather, the presage of corruption's seams;
Pale horror every sound and motion glues,
So corpse-like all around the dungeon seems;
But on--and a low portal met her hand,
By iron staunchions in quaint tracings spann'd.