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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Haunted Hour, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Haunted Hour
+       An Anthology
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Margaret Widdemer
+
+Release Date: December 5, 2005 [EBook #17229]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED HOUR ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Stacy Brown Thellend, and
+the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
+https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED HOUR
+
+_An Anthology_
+
+
+COMPILED BY
+MARGARET WIDDEMER
+
+NEW YORK
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE
+1920
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
+HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.
+
+THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
+RAHWAY, N.J.
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT NOTICE
+
+
+For the use of the copyrighted material included in this volume
+permission has been secured either from the author or his authorized
+publishers. All rights in these poems are reserved by the holders of the
+copyright, or the authorized publishers, as named below:
+
+To George H. Doran Co. for the poems of Joyce Kilmer and May Byron.
+
+To Doubleday, Page & Co. and Rudyard Kipling for Mr. Kipling's "The
+Looking-Glass."
+
+To E.P. Dutton & Co. for Helen Gray Cone's "Blockhouse on the Hill,"
+from her _A Chant of Love for England_.
+
+To Harper & Bros. for the poems of Arthur Guiterman, Don Marquis, and
+Don C. Seitz.
+
+To Henry Holt and Co. for the poems of Francis Carlin, Walter De La
+Mare, Louis Untermeyer, and Margaret Widdemer.
+
+To Houghton Mifflin Co. for Anna Hempstead Branch's "Such Are the Souls
+in Purgatory" from _Heart of the Road_, the poems of Henry W.
+Longfellow, Nathan Haskell Dole's "Russian Fantasy," Amy Lowell's
+"Haunted" from _Pictures of the Floating World_, May Kendall's "A
+Legend."
+
+To Mitchell Kennerley for the poems of Theodosia Garrison, Dora Sigerson
+Shorter, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
+
+To John Lane Co. for the poems of Rosamund Marriott Watson, Winifred
+Letts, A.E. Housman's "True Lover," Nora Hopper's "Far Away Country,"
+Marjorie Pickthall's "Mary Shepherdess."
+
+To the Macmillan Co. for W.B. Yeats' "Folk o' the Air," and John
+Masefield's "Cape Horn Gospel."
+
+To Thomas Bird Mosher for Edith M. Thomas's "The Passer-By" from _Flower
+from the Ashes_.
+
+To Frederick A. Stokes Co. for "The Highwayman," by Alfred Noyes.
+
+To Charles Scribner's Sons for Josephine Daskam Bacon's "Little Dead
+Child."
+
+To Rose de Vaux Royer for Madison Cawein's "Ghosts."
+
+To the _Saturday Evening Post_ for Grantland Rice's "Ghosts of the
+Argonne."
+
+I have to thank the following authors for express personal permission:
+Josephine Daskam Bacon, Anna Hempstead Branch, Francis Carlin, Helen
+Gray Cone, Nathan Haskell Dole, Theodosia Garrison, Arthur Guiterman,
+Minna Irving, Aline Kilmer, Katherine Tynan Hinkson, Winifred Letts, Amy
+Lowell, Don Marquis, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Ruth Comfort Mitchell,
+Marjorie L.C. Pickthall, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Grantland Rice, Edwin
+Arlington Robinson, Robert Haven Schauffler, Don C. Seitz, Clement
+Shorter (for Dora Sigerson Shorter), Edith M. Thomas, Louis Untermeyer,
+and William Butler Yeats.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+This does not attempt to be an inclusive anthology. The ghostly poetry
+of the late war alone would have made a book as large as this; and an
+inclusive scheme would have ended as a six-volume Encyclopedia of
+Ghostly Verse. I hope that this may be called for some day. The present
+book has been held to the conventional limits of the type of small
+anthology which may be read without weariness (I hope) by the exclusion
+not only of many long and dreary ghost-poems, but many others which it
+was very hard to leave out.
+
+I have not considered as ghost-poems anything but poems which related to
+the return of spirits to earth. Thus "The Blessed Damozel," a poem of
+spirits in heaven, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," whose heroine may be a
+fairy or witch, and whose ghosts are presented in dream only, do not
+belong in this classification; nor do such poems as Mathilde Blind's
+lovely sonnet, "The Dead Are Ever with Us," class as ghost-poems; for in
+these the dead are living in ourselves in a half-metaphorical sense. If
+a poem would be a ghost-story, in short, I have considered it a
+ghost-poem, not otherwise.
+
+In this connection I wish to thank Mabel Cleland Ludlum for her
+unwearied and intelligent assistance with the selection and compilation
+of the book; and Aline Kilmer for help in its revision and arrangement.
+
+                                                  Margaret Widdemer.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                             PAGE
+
+The Far Away Country         _Nora Hopper Chesson_            xiv
+
+"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"
+
+All-Souls                    _Katherine Tynan_                  3
+All-Saints' Eve              _Lizette Woodworth Reese_          3
+A Dream                      _William Allingham_                4
+The Neighbors                _Theodosia Garrison_               6
+A Ballad of Hallowe'en       _Theodosia Garrison_               7
+The Forgotten Soul           _Margaret Widdemer_                8
+All-Souls' Night             _Dora Sigerson Shorter_            9
+Janet's Tryst                _George Macdonald_                10
+Hallows' E'en                _Winifred M. Letts_               13
+On Kingston Bridge           _Ellen M.H. Cortissoz_            14
+All-Souls' Night             _Louisa Humphreys_                16
+
+"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"
+
+Mary Shepherdess             _Marjorie L.C. Pickthall_         21
+The Little Ghost             _Katherine Tynan_                 22
+Two Brothers                 _Theodosia Garrison_              24
+The Little Dead Child        _Josephine Daskam Bacon_          25
+The Child Alone              _Rosamund Marriott Watson_        27
+The Child                    _Theodosia Garrison_              28
+Such Are the Souls in
+  Purgatory                  _Anna Hempstead Branch_           29
+The Open Door                _Rosamund Marriott Watson_        32
+My Laddie's Hounds           _Marguerite Elizabeth Easter_     33
+The Old House                _Katherine Tynan_                 35
+
+SHADOWY HEROES
+
+Ballad of the Buried Sword   _Ernest Rhys_                     39
+The Looking-Glass            _Rudyard Kipling_                 40
+Drake's Drum                 _Henry Newbolt_                   41
+The Grey Ghost               _Francis Carlin_                  42
+Ballad of Douglas Bridge     _Francis Carlin_                  43
+The Indian Burying Ground    _Philip Freneau_                  44
+
+"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"
+
+The Song of Soldiers         _Walter De La Mare_               49
+By the Blockhouse on the
+  Hill                       _Helen Gray Cone_                 49
+Night at Gettysburg          _Don C. Seitz_                    51
+The Riders                   _Katherine Tynan_                 52
+The White Comrade            _Robert Haven Schauffler_         53
+Ghosts of the Argonne        _Grantland Rice_                  56
+November Eleventh            _Ruth Comfort Mitchell_           57
+
+SEA GHOSTS
+
+The Flying Dutchman          _Charles Godfrey Leland_          61
+The Phantom Ship             _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_      61
+The Phantom Light of the
+  Baie des Chaleurs          _Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton_ 63
+The Sands of Dee             _Charles Kingsley_                65
+The Lake of the Dismal
+  Swamp                      _Thomas Moore_                    66
+The Flying Dutchman of the
+  Tappan Zee                 _Arthur Guiterman_                68
+The White Ships and the
+  Red                        _Joyce Kilmer_                    70
+Featherstone's Doom          _Robert Stephen Hawker_           73
+Sea-Ghosts                   _May Byron_                       74
+Fog Wraiths                  _Mildred Howells_                 76
+
+CHEERFUL SPIRITS
+
+Cape Horn Gospel             _John Masefield_                  79
+Legend of Hamilton Tighe     _Richard Harris Barham_           80
+The Supper Superstition      _Thomas Hood_                     84
+The Ingoldsby Penance        _Richard Harris Barham_           87
+Pompey's Ghost               _Thomas Hood_                    103
+The Ghost                    _Thomas Hood_                    107
+Mary's Ghost                 _Thomas Hood_                    109
+The Superstitious Ghost      _Arthur Guiterman_               111
+Dave Lilly                   _Joyce Kilmer_                   112
+Martin                       _Joyce Kilmer_                   114
+
+HAUNTED PLACES
+
+The Listeners                _Walter De La Mare_              119
+Haunted Houses               _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_     120
+The Beleaguered City         _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_     122
+A Newport Romance            _Bret Harte_                     124
+A Legend                     _May Kendall_                    126
+A Midnight Visitor           _Elizabeth Akers Allen_          128
+Haunted                      _Amy Lowell_                     130
+The Little Green Orchard     _Walter De La Mare_              131
+Fireflies                    _Louise Driscoll_                132
+The Little Ghost             _Edna St. Vincent Millay_        133
+Haunted                      _Louis Untermeyer_               134
+Ghosts                       _Madison Cawein_                 135
+The Three Ghosts             _Theodosia Garrison_             137
+
+"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"
+
+After Death                  _Christina Rossetti_             141
+The Passer-By                _Edith M. Thomas_                141
+At Home                      _Christina Rossetti_             142
+The Return                   _Minna Irving_                   143
+The Room's Width             _Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward_   144
+Haunted                      _Don Marquis_                    144
+
+"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"
+
+One Out-of-Doors             _Sarah Piatt_                    149
+Sailing Beyond Seas          _Jean Ingelow_                   149
+Betrayal                     _Aline Kilmer_                   151
+The True Lover               _A.E. Housman_                   152
+Haunted                      _G.B. Stuart_                    153
+The White Moth               _Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch_       154
+The Ghost                    _Walter De La Mare_              155
+Luke Havergal                _Edwin Arlington Robinson_       156
+The Highwayman               _Alfred Noyes_                   157
+The Blue Closet              _William Morris_                 163
+The Ghost's Petition         _Christina Georgina Rossetti_    166
+He and She                   _Sir Edwin Arnold_               169
+
+SHAPES OF DOOM
+
+The Dead Coach               _Katherine Tynan_                175
+Deid Folks' Ferry            _Rosamund Marriott Watson_       176
+Keith of Ravelston           _Sydney Dobell_                  178
+The Fetch                    _Dora Sigerson Shorter_          179
+The Banshee                  _Dora Sigerson Shorter_          183
+The Seven Whistlers          _Alice E. Gillington_            185
+The Victor                   _Theodosia Garrison_             187
+Mawgan of Melhuach           _Robert Stephen Hawker_          188
+The Mother's Ghost           _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_     189
+The Dead Mother              _Robert Buchanan_                192
+
+LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD
+
+The Folk of the Air          _William Butler Yeats_           199
+The Reconciliation           _A. Margaret Ramsay_             201
+The Priest's Brother         _Dora Sigerson Shorter_          203
+The Ballad of Judas
+  Iscariot                   _Robert Buchanan_                205
+The Eve of St. John          _Walter Scott_                   212
+Fair Margaret's Misfortunes  _Anon._                          220
+Sweet William's Ghost        _Anon._                          222
+Clerk Saunders               _Anon._                          224
+The Wife of Usher's Well     _Anon._                          229
+A Lyke-Wake Dirge            _Anon._                          231
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED HOUR
+
+
+
+
+THE FAR AWAY COUNTRY
+
+NORA HOPPER CHESSON
+
+
+_Far away's the country where I desire to go,_
+_Far away's the country where the blue roses grow,_
+_Far away's the country and very far away,_
+_And who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day._
+
+_Far away's the country, and the seas are wild_
+_That you must voyage over, grown man or chrisom child,_
+_O'er leagues of land and water a weary way you'll go_
+_Before you'll find the country where the blue roses grow._
+
+_But O, and O, the roses are very strange and fair,_
+_You'd travel far to see them, and one might die to wear,_
+_Yet, far away's the country, and perilous the sea,_
+_And some may think far fairer the red rose on her tree._
+
+_Far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,_
+_Far away's the country--O would that I were there!_
+_It's on and on past Whinny Muir and over Brig o' Dread._
+_And you shall pluck blue roses the day that you are dead._
+
+
+
+
+"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"
+
+
+ALL-SOULS: KATHERINE TYNAN
+
+The door of Heaven is on the latch
+  To-night, and many a one is fain
+To go home for one night's watch
+  With his love again.
+
+Oh, where the father and mother sit
+  There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
+Like pitter-patter of little feet
+  That come no more.
+
+Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
+  Their tears are heavier than the clay,
+But who is this at the threshold
+  So young and gay?
+
+They are come from the land o' the young,
+  They have forgotten how to weep;
+Words of comfort on the tongue,
+  And a kiss to keep.
+
+They sit down and they stay awhile,
+  Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
+At morn they steal forth with a smile
+  And a long look back.
+
+
+ALL-SAINTS' EVE: LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE
+
+Oh, when the ghosts go by,
+  Under the empty trees,
+Here in my house I sit and cry,
+  My head upon my knees!
+
+Innumerable, white,
+  Like mist they fill the square;
+The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight,
+  The shutter barred there.
+
+There walks one small and glad,
+  New to the churchyard clod;
+My little lad, my little lad,
+  A single year with God!
+
+I sit and hide my head
+  Until they all are past,
+Under the empty trees the dead
+  That go full soft and fast.
+
+Up to my chamber dim,
+  Back to my bed I plod;
+Oh, would I were a ghost with him,
+  And faring back to God!
+
+
+A DREAM: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
+
+I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
+I went to the window to see the sight;
+All the dead that ever I knew
+Going one by one and two by two.
+
+On they pass'd and on they pass'd;
+Townsfellows all, from first to last;
+Born in the moonlight of the lane,
+Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
+
+Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd
+At soldiers once--but now more staid;
+Those were the strangest sight to me
+Who were drown'd, I knew, in the open sea.
+
+Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
+Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
+Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
+Some that I had not known were dead.
+
+A long long crowd--where each seem'd lonely,
+Yet of them all there was one, one only,
+Raised a head or looked my way;
+She linger'd a moment--she might not stay.
+
+How long since I saw that fair pale face!
+Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
+My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
+While thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd!
+
+On, on, a moving bridge they made
+Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
+Young and old, women and men;
+Many long-forgot, but remember'd then,
+
+And first there came a bitter laughter;
+A sound of tears a moment after,
+And then a music so lofty and gay,
+That every morning, day by day,
+I strive to recall it if I may.
+
+
+THE NEIGHBORS: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+    _At first cock-crow_
+    _The ghosts must go_
+    _Back to their quiet graves below._
+
+Against the distant striking of the clock
+I heard the crowing cock,
+  And I arose and threw the window wide;
+    Long, long before the setting of the moon,
+    And yet I knew they must be passing soon--
+  My neighbors who had died--
+Back to their narrow green-roofed homes that wait
+Beyond the churchyard gate.
+
+I leaned far out and waited--all the world
+Was like a thing impearled,
+  Mysterious and beautiful and still:
+    The crooked road seemed one the moon might lay,
+    Our little village slept in Quaker gray,
+  And gray and tall the poplars on the hill;
+And then far off I heard the cock--and then
+My neighbors passed again.
+
+At first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more,
+Slow drifting by my door,
+  Or gardened lilies swaying in the wind;
+    Then suddenly each separate face I knew,
+    The tender lovers drifting two and two,
+  Old, peaceful folk long since passed out of mind,
+And little children--one whose hand held still
+An earth-grown daffodil.
+
+And here I saw one pausing for a space
+To lift a wistful face
+  Up to a certain window where there dreamed
+    A little brood left motherless; and there
+    One turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare;
+  And others lingering passed--but one there seemed
+So over glad to haste, she scarce could wait
+To reach the churchyard gate!
+
+The farrier's little maid who loved too well
+And died--I may not tell
+  How glad she seemed. My neighbors, young and old,
+    With backward glances lingered as they went;
+    Only upon one face was all content,
+  A sorrow comforted--a peace untold.
+I watched them through the swinging gate--the dawn
+Stayed till the last had gone.
+
+
+A BALLAD OF HALLOWE'EN: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+_All night the wild wind on the heath_
+  _Whistled its song of vague alarms;_
+_All night in some mad dance of death_
+  _The poplars tossed their naked arms._
+
+Mignon Isa hath left her bed
+  And bared her shoulders to the blast;
+The long procession of the dead
+  Stared at her as it passed.
+
+"Oh, there, methinks, my mother smiled,
+  And there my father walks forlorn,
+And there the little nameless child
+  That was the parish scorn.
+
+"And there my olden comrades move,
+  And there my sister smiles apart,
+But nowhere is the fair, false love
+  That bent and broke my heart.
+
+"Oh, false in life, oh, false in death,
+  Wherever thy mad spirit be,
+Could it not come this night," she saith,
+  "And keep tryst with me?"
+
+Mignon Isa has turned alone,
+  Bitter the pain and long the years;
+The moonlight on the old gravestone
+  Was warmer than her tears.
+
+_All night the wild wind on the heath_
+  _Whistled its song of vague alarms;_
+_All night in some mad dance of death_
+  _The poplars tossed their naked arms._
+
+
+THE FORGOTTEN SOUL: MARGARET WIDDEMER
+
+'Twas I that cried against the pane on All Souls' Night
+  (O pulse of my heart's life, how could you never hear?)
+You filled the room I knew with yellow candlelight
+  And cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear.
+
+'Twas I that went beside you in the gray wood-mist
+  (O core of my heart's heart, how could you never know?)
+You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed
+  The lass hard by you, handfast, as I used to go.
+
+'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave
+  (O fire of my heart's grief, how could you never see?)
+You smiled in careless dreaming as you crossed my grave
+  And hummed a little love-song where they buried me!
+
+
+ALL-SOULS' NIGHT: DORA SIGERSON
+
+O mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair
+    and the white board spread,
+I prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's
+    doors would let out the dead;
+A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the
+    lane a dog howled on,
+I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed
+    a hand the door-latch upon.
+Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever
+    coward flesh from fear.
+I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was
+    afraid to meet my dear.
+
+O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past
+    of the year that's o'er,
+Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the
+    sound of his voice once more;
+The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he
+    came from unknown skies
+Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt
+    the reproach of his saddened eyes;
+I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire,
+    my voice was dumb.
+At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my
+    table he broke no crumb.
+Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever
+    coward flesh from fear.
+His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I
+    was afraid to meet my dear.
+
+
+JANET'S TRYST: GEORGE MACDONALD
+
+"Sweep up the flure, Janet,
+  Put on anither peat.
+It's a lown and starry nicht, Janet,
+  And neither cold nor weet.
+
+And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
+  For ony that may be oot;
+It's the nicht atween the Sancts an' Souls
+  Whan the bodiless gang aboot.
+
+Set the chairs back to the wall, Janet,
+  Mak' ready for quaiet fowk,
+Hae a' thing as clean as a windin'-sheet--
+  They comena ilka ook.
+
+There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
+  And there's a rowan berry.
+Sweep them into the fire, Janet,--
+  They'll be welcomer than merry.
+
+Syne set open the door, Janet,--
+  Wide open for wha kens wha:
+As ye come to your bed, Janet,
+  Set it open to the wa'."
+
+She set the chairs back to the wa',
+  But ane made of the birk,
+She swept the flure, but left ane spale,
+  A long spale o' the aik.
+
+The nicht was lown, and the stars sat still
+  A-glintin' doon the sky:
+And the sauls crept oot o' their mooly graves,
+  A' dank wi' lyin' by.
+
+When midnight came the mither rase--
+  She wad gae see an' hear.
+Back she cam' wi' a glowrin' face,
+  An' sloomin' wi' verra fear.
+
+"There's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire!
+  Janet, gae na to see;
+Ye left a chair afore the fire,
+  Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be."
+
+Janet she smiled in her mither's face:
+  She had brunt the roddin reid:
+And she left aneath the birken chair
+  The spale frae a coffin lid.
+
+She rase and she gaed but the hoose,
+  Aye steekin' door and door,
+Three hours gaed by ere her mother heard
+  Her fit upo' the flure.
+
+But whan the grey cock crew she heard
+  The soun' o' shoeless feet,
+Whan the red cock crew she heard the door
+  An' a sough o' wind an' weet.
+
+An' Janet cam' back wi' a wan face,
+  But never a word said she;
+No man ever heard her voice lood oot--
+  It cam' like frae ower the sea.
+
+And no man ever heard her lauch,
+  Nor yet say alas nor wae;
+But a smile aye glimmert on her wan face
+  Like the moonlicht on the sea.
+
+And ilka nicht 'twixt the Sancts an' Souls
+  Wide open she set the door;
+And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair
+  And that spale upo' the flure.
+
+And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose,
+  Aye steekin' door and door.
+Whan the red cock crew she cam' ben the hoose,
+  Aye wanner than before.
+
+Wanner her face and sweeter her smile,
+  Till the seventh All-Souls Eve
+Her mither she heard the shoeless feet,
+  Says "She's comin', I believe."
+
+But she camna ben, an' her mither lay;
+  For fear she cudna stan',
+But up she rase an' ben she gaed
+  Whan the gowden cock hed crawn.
+
+And Janet sat upo' the chair,
+  White as the day did daw,
+Her smile was as sunlight left on the sea
+  Whan the sun has gane awa.
+
+
+HALLOWS' E'EN: WINIFRED M. LETTS
+
+The girls are laughing with the boys, and gaming by the fire,
+They're wishful, every one of them, to see her heart's desire,
+Twas Thesie cut the barnbrack and found the ring inside,
+Before next Hallows' E'en has dawned herself will be a bride.
+But little Mollie stands alone outside the cabin door,
+And breaks her heart for one the waves threw dead upon the shore.
+
+Twas Katie's nut lepped from the hearth, and left poor Pat's alone
+But Ellen's stayed by Christy Byrne's upon the wide hearthstone.
+An' all the while the childher bobbed for apples set afloat,
+The old men smoked their pipes and talked about the foundered boat,
+But Mollie walked upon the cliff, and never feared the rain;
+She called the name of one she loved and bid him come again.
+
+Young Peter pulled the cabbage-stump to win a wealthy wife,
+Rosanna threw the apple-peel to know who'd share her life;
+And Lizzie had a looking-glass she'd hid in some dark place
+To try if there, foreninst her own, she'd see her comrade's face.
+But Mollie walked along the quay where Terry's feet had trod,
+And sobbed her grief out in the night, with no one near but God.
+
+She heard the laughter from the house, she heard the fiddle played;
+She called her dead love to her side--why should she be afraid?
+She took his cold hands in her own, she had no thought of dread,
+And not a star looked out to watch the living kiss the dead.
+
+The lads are gaming with the girls, and laughing by the fire.
+But Mollie in the cold, dark night, has found her heart's desire.
+
+
+ON KINGSTON BRIDGE: ELLEN M.H. CORTISSOZ
+
+(On All Souls' Night the dead walk on Kingston
+Bridge.--_Old Legend._)
+
+On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone
+  Through hurrying mists in shrouded glow;
+The boding night-wind made its moan,
+  The mighty river crept below.
+  'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro
+The quick and dead together walked,
+The quick and dead together talked,
+      On Kingston Bridge.
+
+Two met who had not met for years;
+Once was their hate too deep for fears:
+One drew his rapier as he came,
+Upleapt his anger like a flame.
+With clash of mail he faced his foe,
+And bade him stand and meet him so.
+He felt a graveyard wind go by
+Cold, cold as was his enemy.
+  A stony horror held him fast.
+The Dead looked with a ghastly stare,
+  And sighed "I know thee not," and passed
+Like to the mist, and left him there
+        On Kingston Bridge.
+
+'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro
+The quick and dead together walked,
+The quick and dead together talked,
+        On Kingston Bridge.
+
+Two met who had not met for years:
+With grief that was too deep for tears
+        They parted last.
+He clasped her hand, and in her eyes
+He sought Love's rapturous surprise.
+"Oh, Sweet!" he cried, "hast thou come back
+To say thou lov'st thy lover still?"
+--Into the starlight, pale and cold,
+She gazed afar--her hand was chill:
+"Dost thou remember how we kept
+Our ardent vigils?--how we kissed?--
+Take thou these kisses as of old!"
+  An icy wind about him swept;
+"I know thee not," she sighed, and passed
+  Into the dim and shrouding mist
+        On Kingston Bridge.
+
+'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro
+The quick and dead together walked,
+The quick and dead together talked,
+        On Kingston Bridge.
+
+
+ALL SOULS' NIGHT: LOUISA HUMPHREYS
+
+Canice the priest went out on the Night of Souls;
+  "Stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board
+"Stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes,
+  And the night is dark and the way is lone abroad;
+Stay within because it is lone, at least."
+"Nay, it will not be lone," said Canice the priest.
+
+Dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky;
+  A scent of earth in the night, of opened mould;
+A listening pause in the night--and a breath passed by--
+  And its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold
+Canice went on to the waste where no men be;
+"Nay, I will not be lone to-night," said he.
+
+Shades that flit, besides the shades of the night;
+  Rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind;
+Steps of feet that pace with his on the right,
+  Steps that pace on the left, and steps behind.
+"Nay, no fear that I shall be lone, at least!
+Lo, there are throngs abroad," said Canice the priest.
+
+Deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem;
+  Sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek;
+Canice the priest swings on, atune with them,
+  Hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak;
+Hears the word they utter, and answers "Yea!
+Yea, poor souls, for I heed; I pray, I pray."
+
+Lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done;
+  Hark, a bird that trills a song of the light.
+Canice hies him home by the shine of the sun.
+  What to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night?
+What of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled?
+"Maria, ora pro illis!" Canice said.
+
+
+
+
+"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"
+
+
+MARY SHEPHERDESS: MARJORIE L.C. PICKTHALL
+
+When the heron's in the high wood and the last long furrow's sown
+With the herded cloud before her and her sea-sweet raiment blown
+Comes Mary, Mary Shepherdess, a-seeking for her own.
+
+Saint James he calls the righteous folk, Saint John he calls the kind,
+Saint Peter seeks the valiant men all to loose or bind,
+But Mary seeks the little souls that are so hard to find.
+
+All the little sighing souls born of dust's despair,
+They who fed on bitter bread when the world was bare,
+Frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair.
+
+All about the windy down, housing in the ling,
+Underneath the alder-bough linnet-light they cling,
+Frighted of the shining house where the martyrs sing.
+
+Crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane,
+Grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the lane,
+Mary, Mary Shepherdess gathers them again.
+
+And O the wandering women know, in workhouse and in shed,
+They dream on Mary Shepherdess with doves about her head,
+And pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow comforted.
+
+Saying: there's my little lass, faring fine and free,
+There's the little lad I laid by the holly tree,
+Dreaming: There's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee.
+
+When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam
+When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam,
+Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home.
+
+If I had a little maid to turn my tears away,
+If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm gray,
+All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray.
+
+
+THE LITTLE GHOST: KATHERINE TYNAN
+
+The stars began to peep
+  Gone was the bitter day,
+She heard the milky ewes
+  Bleat to their lambs astray.
+Her heart cried for her lamb
+  Lapped cold in the churchyard sod,
+She could not think on the happy children
+  At play with the Lamb of God.
+
+She heard the calling ewes
+  And the lambs answer alas!
+She heard her heart's blood drip in the night,
+  As the ewes' milk on the grass.
+Her tears that burnt like fire
+  So bitter and slow ran down
+She could not think on the new-washed children
+  Playing by Mary's gown.
+
+Oh, who is this comes in
+  Over her threshold stone?
+And why is the old dog wild with joy
+  Who all day long made moan?
+This fair little radiant ghost,
+  Her one little son of seven,
+New 'scaped from the band of merry children
+  In the nurseries of Heaven.
+
+He was all clad in white
+  Without a speck or stain;
+His curls had a ring of light,
+  That rose and fell again.
+"Now come with me, my own mother,
+  And you shall have great ease,
+For you shall see the lost children
+  Gathered at Mary's knees."
+
+Oh, lightly sprang she up
+  Nor waked her sleeping man,
+And hand in hand with the little ghost
+  Through the dark night she ran.
+She is gone swift as a fawn,
+  As a bird homes to its nest,
+She has seen them lie, the sleepy children,
+  'Twixt Mary's arm and breast.
+
+At morning she came back;
+  Her eyes were strange to see.
+She will not fear the long journey,
+  However long it be.
+As she goes in and out
+  She sings unto hersel';
+For she has seen the mother's children
+  And knows that it is well.
+
+
+TWO BROTHERS: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+The dead son's mother sat and wept
+  And her live son plucked at her gown,
+"Oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!"
+  But she beat the small hands down.
+
+The little live son he clung to her knee--
+  And frightened his eyes and dim--
+"Have ye never, my mother, a word for me?"
+  But she turned her face from him,
+
+Saying, "Oh and alack, mine own dead son,
+  Could I know but the path aright,
+How fast and how fast my feet would run
+  Through the way o' Death to-night!"
+
+Saying, "Oh and alack, for thy empty place
+  And the ache in my heart to hide!"
+The little live son has touched her face,
+  But she thrust his hands aside.
+
+The mother hath laid her down and wept
+  In the midnight's chill and gloom;
+In the hour ere dawn while the mother slept
+  The ghost came in the room.
+
+And the little live son hath called his name
+  Or ever he passed the door,
+"Oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came,
+  For our mother's grief is sore!
+
+"Oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee
+  As a rain that beats all day,
+But me she pushes from off her knee
+  And turneth her eyes away."
+
+And the little dead son he spake again,
+  "My brother, the dead have grace
+Though they lay them low from the sight of men
+  With a white cloth on their face.
+
+"Oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love,
+  Though lonely and low they lie,
+By my mother's love do I speak and move
+  And may not wholly die."
+
+The little live son he sighed apart,
+  "Oh, brother, ye live," quoth he,
+"In my mother's grief and my mother's heart
+  And my mother's memory.
+
+"And vain for thee is my mother's cry,"
+  The little live son hath said,
+"For ye are loved and ye may not die--
+  It is only I who am dead!"
+
+
+THE LITTLE DEAD CHILD: JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON
+
+When all but her were sleeping fast,
+  And the night was nearly fled,
+The little dead child came up the stair
+  And stood by his mother's bed.
+
+"Ah, God!" she cried, "the nights are three,
+  And yet I have not slept!"
+The little dead child he sat him down,
+  And sank his head and wept.
+
+"And is it thou, my little dead child,
+  Come in from out the storm?
+Ah, lie thou back against my heart,
+  And I will keep thee warm!"
+
+_That is long ago, mother,_
+  _Long and long ago!_
+_Shall I grow warm who lay three nights_
+  _Beneath the winter snow?_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Hast thou not heard the old nurse weep?
+  She sings to us no more;
+And thy brothers leave the broken toys
+  And whisper in the door."
+
+_That is far away, mother,_
+  _Far and far away!_
+_Above my head the stone is white._
+  _My hands forget to play._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"What wilt thou then, my little dead child,
+  Since here thou may'st not lie?
+Ah, me! that snow should be thy sheet,
+  And winds thy lullaby!"
+
+_Down within my grave, mother,_
+  _I heard, I know not how,_
+_"Go up to God, thou little child,_
+  _Go up and meet him now!"_
+
+_That is far to fare, mother,_
+  _Far and far to fare!_
+_I come for thee to carry me_
+  _The way from here to there._
+
+"Oh, hold thy peace, my little dead child.
+  My heart will break in me!
+Thy way to God thou must go alone,
+  I may not carry thee!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The cock crew out the early dawn
+  Ere she could stay her moan;
+She heard the cry of a little child,
+  Upon his way alone.
+
+
+THE CHILD ALONE: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON
+
+They say the night has fallen chill--
+  But I know naught of mist or rain,
+Only of two small hands that still
+  Beat on the darkness all in vain.
+
+They say the wind blows high and wild
+  Down the long valleys to the sea;
+But I can only hear the child,
+  Who weeps in darkness, wanting me.
+
+Beyond the footfalls in the street,
+  Above the voices of the bay,
+I hear the sound of little feet,
+  Two little stumbling feet astray.
+
+Oh, loud the autumn wind makes moan,
+  The desolate wind about my door,
+And a little child goes all alone
+  Who never was alone before.
+
+
+THE CHILD: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+I heard her crying in the night,--
+  So long, so long I lay awake,
+  Watching the moonlight ebb and break
+Against the sill like waves of light.
+
+I tried to close my eyes nor heed
+  And lie quite still--but oh, again
+  The little voice of fright and pain
+Sobbed in the darkness of her need.
+
+Strange shadows led me down the stair;
+  Creaked as I went the hollow floor;
+  I drew the bolt and flung the door
+Wide, wide, and softly called her there.
+
+_Ah me, as happy mothers call_
+  _Through the tender twilights to the gay,_
+  _Glad truant making holiday_
+_Too long before the evenfall._
+
+The garden odors drifted through,
+  The scent of earth and box and rose,
+  And then, as silently as those,
+A little wistful child I knew.
+
+So small, so frightened and so cold,
+  Ah, close, so close I gathered her
+  Within my arms, she might not stir,
+And crooned and kissed her in their hold.
+
+_As might a happy mother, when,_
+  _Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,_
+  _One runs to her for comforting,_
+_And smiles within her arms again._
+
+All night upon my heart she lay,
+  All night I held her warm and close,
+  Until the morning wind arose
+And called across the world for day.
+
+The garden odors drifted through
+  The open door; as still as they
+  She passed into the awful day,
+A little, wistful child I knew.
+
+Think you for this God's smile may dim
+  (His are so many, many dead)
+  Seeing that I but comforted
+A child--and sent her back to Him!
+
+
+SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY: ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
+
+Three days she wandered forth from me,
+  Then sought me as of old.
+"I did not know how dark 'twould be,"
+  She sobbed, "nor yet how cold.
+
+"And it is chill for me to fare
+  Who have not long been dead.
+If thou wouldst give away thy cloak
+  I might go comforted."
+
+I would have soothed her on my breast
+  But that she needs must go.
+The dead must journey without rest
+  Whether they will or no.
+
+But I had kept for love of her
+  The cloak she wore, the shoes,
+And every day I touched the things
+  She had been wont to use.
+
+All night the dead must hurry on,
+  They may not ever sleep.
+And so I gave away her cloak
+  That I was fain to keep.
+
+The second time she sought me out
+  Her eyes were full of need.
+"If thou wouldst give away my shoes
+  Perchance I would not bleed."
+
+I cried to her aloud, "My child,
+  They are all I have to keep,
+To lay my hand upon and touch
+  At night before I sleep.
+
+"The earth shall keep the body I bore,
+  And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose.
+Let be--I ask a little thing,
+  That I should keep thy shoes.
+
+"But I will give away my own.
+  Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see?
+Let Thou her road to Paradise
+  This way be eased by me."
+
+All night alone by brier and stone
+  I ran that road unshod,
+So I might know instead of her
+  The pains that lead to God.
+
+When next she came for a brief space
+  She tarried at my side,
+So happy was she in that place,
+  So glad that she had died.
+
+"The last night that I roamed," she said,
+  "Some one had gone before.
+I followed where those feet had led,
+  And found it rough no more.
+
+"And then I came to a good place,
+  So kind, so dear are they
+I may not come again," and so
+  She smiled and went away.
+
+Dear Christ, Who died to save us all,
+  Who trod the ways so cold and wild,
+The love of Mary in thy heart
+  Did let me ease my child.
+
+She may not leave the place of bliss,
+  I may not touch her hands and hair,
+But every night I touch and kiss
+  The shoes she used to wear.
+
+
+THE OPEN DOOR: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON
+
+O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow
+  When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks,
+When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow
+  As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks.
+
+While bare black night through empty casements staring
+  Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead,
+Fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring--
+  Hush and listen--listen--but never turn your head.
+
+Leave the door upon the latch--she could never reach it--
+  You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day,
+Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it,
+  Weeping as once in the long years past away.
+
+Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you--
+  Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay:
+Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you?
+  There all her toys were kept, there she used to play.
+
+Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter
+  Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays:
+Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter,
+  Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways.
+
+Falls as it once fell on a tide past over,
+  Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone;
+And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her
+  Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone.
+
+Far or near no one knew--none would now remember
+  Where she wandered no one knew--none will ever know;
+Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December
+  Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.
+
+
+MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS: MARGUERITE ELIZABETH EASTER
+
+  They are my laddie's hounds
+That rin the wood at brak o' day.
+Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say
+  Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds
+          At brak o' day?
+
+  They cleek aff thegither,
+And then fa' back, wi' room atween
+For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen
+  The baith cleek aff thegither
+          Wi' ane atween!
+
+  And when toward the pines
+Up yonder lane they loup alang
+I see ae laddie brent and strang,
+  I see ae laddie loup alang
+          Toward the pines.
+
+  I follow them in mind
+Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,--
+They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae
+  An' skir the field; I follow them,
+          I ken the way.
+
+  They daddle at the creek,
+Whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs
+I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs,
+  An' drink o' springs that spait the creek
+          Maist to the logs.
+
+  He's but a bairn, atho'
+He hunts the mountain's lonely bree,
+His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee
+  He ties; he's but a bairn, atho'
+          He hunts the bree.
+
+  Fu' length they a' stretch out
+Upon ae bink that green trees hap
+In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap
+  Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out
+          Whaur green trees hap.
+
+  And noo he fades awa'
+Frae 'tween the twa--into the blue.
+My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true
+  That he has gane for aye awa
+          Into the blue!
+
+  They are my laddie's hounds
+That mak the hill at fa' o' day
+Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say
+  _Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_
+          _Till fa' o day?_
+
+
+THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN
+
+The boys who used to come and go
+  In the grey kindly house are flown.
+They have taken the way the young feet know;
+  Not alone, not alone!
+Thronged is the road the young feet go.
+
+Yet in the quiet evening hour
+  What comes, oh, lighter than a bird?
+Touches her cheek, soft as a flower.
+  What moved, what stirred?
+What was the joyous whisper heard?
+
+What flitted in the corridor
+  Like a boy's shape so dear and slight?
+What was the laughter ran before?
+  Delicate, light,
+Like harps the wind plays out of sight.
+
+The boys who used to go and come
+  In the grey house are come again;
+Of the grey house and firelit room
+  They are fain, they are fain:
+They have come home from the night and rain.
+
+
+
+
+SHADOWY HEROES
+
+
+BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS
+
+In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor,
+I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.
+
+I followed three shadows against the moon,
+That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,
+
+Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars,
+That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,
+
+But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
+When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.
+
+Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear,
+I but brought thee home to break thee here."
+
+And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home,
+To which our tired hearts are come!"
+
+And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr,
+To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."
+
+Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand,
+His good sword bright in his right hand,
+
+And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound,
+To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.
+
+The moon did shake in the south to see,
+The dead man stand with his soldiery.
+
+But the brighter his sword, the grave before,
+Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.
+
+Therein the thousand, before their Lord,
+Marched at the summons of his bright sword.
+
+Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain,
+And I stood alone by the grave again.
+
+But brightly his sword still before me shone,
+Across the dark moor as I passed alone.
+
+And still it shines, a silver flame,
+Across the dark night of the Cymraec shame.
+
+
+THE LOOKING-GLASS: RUDYARD KIPLING
+
+The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,
+Her petticoat was of satin, and her stomacher was gold.
+Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,
+Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
+The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
+As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!
+
+The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.
+There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair,
+Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
+But I will stand beside you till you face the looking-glass.
+The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
+As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was."
+
+The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,
+There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door,
+Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
+But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
+The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
+As hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!"
+
+The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.
+She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:--
+"Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been,
+Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!"
+And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)
+And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
+In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
+More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!
+
+
+DRAKE'S DRUM: HENRY NEWBOLT
+
+Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
+    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
+Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
+    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
+    Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe,
+An' the shore light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin'
+    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
+
+Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
+    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
+Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease
+    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
+"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
+    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
+If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
+    An' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago."
+
+Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
+    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
+Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
+    An' dreamin' all the time of Plymouth Hoe.
+Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
+    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe
+Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
+    They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!
+
+
+THE GREY GHOST: FRANCIS CARLIN
+
+From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey,
+  Through misty Connemara in the West;
+  And those who seek the cause of his unrest,
+Need go but to the Death-dumb in the clay,
+To those that fell defiant in the fray,
+  Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest
+  By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest
+Left Hell and Connaught open on their way.
+As I have heard so may the stranger hear!
+  That he who drove the natives from the lawn,
+  Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen
+Until the Irish gather with a cheer
+  In Dublin of the Parliaments at dawn.
+  God rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen!
+
+
+BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE: FRANCIS CARLIN
+
+On Douglas Bridge I met a man
+Who lived adjacent to Straban,
+  Before the English hung him high
+For riding with O'Hanlon.
+
+The eyes of him were just as fresh
+As when they burned within the flesh;
+  And his boot-legs widely walked apart
+From riding with O'Hanlon.
+
+"God save you, Sir!" I said with fear,
+"You seem to be a stranger here."
+  "Not I," said he, "nor any man
+Who rides with Count O'Hanlon."
+
+"I know each glenn from North Tyrone
+To Monaghan, and I've been known
+  By every clan and parish, since
+I rode with Count O'Hanlon."
+
+"Before that time," said he with pride,
+"My fathers rode where now they ride
+  As Rapperees, before the time
+Of Trouble and O'Hanlon."
+
+"Good night to you, and God be with
+The Tellers of the tale and myth,
+  For they are of the spirit-stuff
+That rides with Count O'Hanlon."
+
+"Good night to you," said I, "and God
+Be with the chargers, fairy-shod,
+  That bear the Ulster's heroes forth
+To ride with Count O'Hanlon."
+
+On Douglas Bridge we parted, but
+The Gap o' Dreams is never shut,
+  To one whose saddled soul to-night
+Rides out with Count O'Hanlon.
+
+
+THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND: PHILIP FRENEAU
+
+In spite of all the learned have said,
+  I still my old opinion keep;
+The posture that we give the dead
+  Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
+
+Not so the ancients of these lands;--
+  The Indian, when from life released,
+Again is seated with his friends,
+  And shares again the joyous feast.
+
+His imaged birds and painted bowl,
+  And venison, for a journey dressed,
+Bespeak the nature of the soul,
+  Activity, that wants no rest.
+
+His bow for action ready bent,
+  And arrows with a head of stone,
+Can only mean that life is spent,
+  And not the old ideas gone.
+
+Thou, stranger that shalt come this way,
+  No fraud upon the dead commit,--
+Observe the swelling turf and say,
+  They do not lie, but here they sit.
+
+Here still a lofty rock remains,
+  On which the curious eye may trace,
+(Now wasted half by wearing rains,)
+  The fancies of a ruder race.
+
+Here still an aged elm aspires,
+  Beneath whose far projecting shade,
+(And which the shepherd still admires,)
+  The children of the forest played.
+
+There oft a restless Indian queen,
+  (Pale Shebah with her braided hair,)
+And many a barbarous form is seen
+  To chide the man that lingers there.
+
+By midnight moons, o'er misting dews,
+  In habit of the chase arrayed,
+The hunter still the deer pursues,
+  The hunter and the deer--a shade!
+
+And long shall timorous Fancy see
+  The painted chief and pointed spear,
+The Reason's self shall bow the knee
+  To shadows and delusions here.
+
+
+
+
+"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"
+
+
+THE SONG OF SOLDIERS: WALTER DE LA MARE
+
+As I sat musing by the frozen dyke,
+There was one man marching with a bright steel pike,
+Marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he,
+And behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea.
+
+As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten--
+Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen,
+Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me,
+And behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea.
+
+As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array,
+With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray,
+Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree,
+And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea.
+
+
+BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL: HELEN GRAY CONE
+
+_A Ballad of Ninety-eight_
+
+The soul of the fair young man sprang up
+  From the earth where his body lay,
+And he was aware of a grim dark soul
+  Companioning his way.
+
+"Who are you, brother?" the fair soul said,
+  "We wing together still!"
+And the soul replied that was swart and red,
+"The spirit of him who shot you dead
+  By the blockhouse on the hill.
+
+"Your men and you on the crest were first,
+  And the last foe left was I,
+In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed,
+Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst
+  And the hot charge panted nigh.
+
+"You saw me writhe at the side of the trench;
+  You bade--I know not what;
+With one last gnash, with one last wrench,
+  I sped my last, sure shot.
+
+"The thing that lies on the sodden ground
+  Like a wrack of the whirlwind's track,
+Your men have made of the body of me,
+  But they could not call you back!
+
+"In that black game I won, I won!
+  But had you worked your will,
+Speak now the shame that you would have done
+  In the blockhouse under the hill!"
+
+"God judge my men!" said the fair young soul,
+  "He knows you tried them sore.
+Had He given me power to bide an hour
+  I had wrought that they forebore.
+
+"I bade them, ere your bullet brought
+  This swift, this sweet release,
+To bear your body out of the fire
+  That you might rest in peace."
+
+Said the grim dark soul, "Farewell, farewell,
+  Farewell 'twixt you and me
+Till they set red Judas free from Hell
+  To kneel at the Lord Christ's knee!"
+
+"Not so, not so," said the fair young soul,
+  "But reach me out your hand:
+We two will kneel at the Lord Christ's knee,
+And he that was hanged on the cruel tree
+  Will remember and understand.
+
+"We two will pray at the Lord Christ's knee
+  That never on earth again
+The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud
+  The sight in the eyes of men!"
+
+The clean stars came into the sky,
+  The perfect night was still;
+Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry
+  From the blockhouse under the hill.
+
+
+NIGHT AT GETTYSBURG: DON C. SEITZ
+
+By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes
+The army rallies to the beating drums;
+Columns are formed and banners wave
+O'er armies summoned from the grave.
+
+The wheat field waves with reddened grain
+And the wounded wail and writhe in pain.
+The hard-held Bloody Angle drips anew
+And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew,
+
+While where the road to the village turns
+Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!
+
+
+THE RIDERS: KATHERINE TYNAN
+
+Rheims is down in fire and smoke,
+The hour of God is at the stroke,
+
+Round and round the ruined place,--
+Jesus, Mary, give us grace!
+
+There are two riders clad in mail
+Silver as the moon is pale.
+
+One is tall as a knight's spear,
+The younger one is lowlier.
+
+Small and slim and like a maid--
+Steeds and riders cast no shade.
+
+Who are then these cavaliers?
+There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.
+
+Who are those who ride so light,
+Soundless in the flaming light,
+
+Where Rheims burns, that was given
+By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?
+
+Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down,
+Naught is left of her renown.
+
+Hist! what sound is in the breeze
+Like the sighing of forest trees?
+
+Or the great wind, or an army,
+Or the waves of the wild sea?
+
+The tall knight rides fierce and fast
+To the sound of a trumpet-blast.
+
+The little knight in fire and flame,
+Slender and soft as a dame,
+
+Rides and is not far behind:
+His long hair floats on the wind,
+
+And ever the tramp of chivalry
+Comes like the sound of the sea.
+
+This is Michael rides abroad,
+Prince of the army of God,
+
+And this like a lily arrayed
+Is Joan, the blessed Maid.
+
+Rheims is down in fire and smoke
+And the hour of God's at the stroke.
+
+
+THE WHITE COMRADE: ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER
+
+Under our curtain of fire,
+Over the clotted clods,
+We charged, to be withered, to reel
+And despairingly wheel
+When the signal bade us retire
+From the terrible odds.
+As we ebbed with the battle-tide,
+Fingers of red-hot steel
+Suddenly closed on my side.
+I fell, and began to pray.
+I crawled on my hands and lay
+Where a shallow crater yawned wide;
+Then,--I swooned....
+
+When I woke, it was yet day.
+Fierce was the pain of my wound,
+But I saw it was death to stir,
+For fifty paces away
+Their trenches were.
+In torture I prayed for the dark
+And the stealthy step of my friend
+Who, stanch to the very end,
+Would creep to the danger zone
+And offer his life as a mark
+To save my own.
+
+Night fell. I heard his tread,
+Not stealthy, but firm and serene,
+As if my comrade's head
+Were lifted far from that scene
+Of passion and pain and dread;
+As if my comrade's heart
+In carnage took no part;
+As if my comrade's feet
+Were set on some radiant street
+Such as no darkness might haunt;
+As if my comrade's eyes
+No deluge of flame could surprise,
+No death and destruction daunt,
+No red-beaked bird dismay,
+Nor sight of decay.
+
+Then in the bursting shells' dim light
+I saw he was clad in white.
+For a moment I thought that I saw the smock
+Of a shepherd in search of his flock.
+Alert were the enemy, too,
+And their bullets flew
+Straight at a mark no bullet could fail;
+For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright;
+But he did not flee nor quail.
+Instead, with unhurrying stride
+He came,
+And gathering my tall frame,
+Like a child, in his arms....
+
+Again I slept,
+And awoke
+From a blissful dream
+In a cave by a stream.
+My silent comrade had bound my side.
+No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,--
+A mastering wish to serve this man
+Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke,
+As only the truest of comrades can.
+I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him,
+And urgently prayed him
+Never to leave me, whatever betide;--
+When I saw he was hurt--
+Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer!
+Then as the dark drops gathered there
+And fell in the dirt,
+The wounds of my friend
+Seemed to me such as no man might bear.
+Those bullet-holes in the patient hands
+Seemed to transcend
+All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands
+Had known or would know till the mad world's end.
+Then suddenly I was aware
+That his feet had been wounded too;
+And, dimming the white of his side,
+A dull stain grew.
+"You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried.
+His words I already foreknew:
+"_These are old wounds_," said he,
+"_But of late they have troubled me._"
+
+
+GHOSTS OF THE ARGONNE: GRANTLAND RICE
+
+You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden;
+  They sound like the rustle of winter leaves,
+Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden,
+  Or rain that drips from the forest eaves,
+As they glide again from their silent crosses
+  To meet and talk of their final fight,
+Where over the group some stark tree tosses
+  Its eerie shadow across the night.
+
+If you'll take some night with its moonless weather,
+  I know you will reason beyond a doubt
+That the rain and the wind and the leaves together
+  Are making the sounds you will hear about:
+The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling,
+  The whispering wind through the matted glen;
+But I can swear it's a sergeant calling
+  The ghostly roll of his squad again.
+
+They talk of war and its crimson glory,
+  And laugh at the trick which Fate has played;
+And over and over they tell the story
+  Of their final charge through the Argonne glade;
+But gathering in by hill and hollow
+  With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam,
+There is one set rule which the clan must follow:
+  They never speak of returning home.
+
+They whisper still of the rifles' clatter,
+  The riveting racket machine guns gave,
+Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter
+  As each one glides to his waiting grave;
+But here at the end of their last endeavor
+  However their stark dreams leap the foam
+There is one set rule they will keep forever:
+  "Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"
+
+
+NOVEMBER ELEVENTH: RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL
+
+It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of
+    a great play-ground,
+And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields
+    that ringed them round,
+But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off
+    sound.
+
+"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't
+    you hear the bells?"
+"Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used
+    to hear the shells.
+Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."
+
+"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are
+    only names.
+Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes
+    and fames!
+Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."
+
+But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent
+    with an anxious frown,--
+"It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little
+    own home town!
+I hear my dad! I can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze
+    plunged down.
+
+"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these
+    teasing dreams will cease!
+One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the
+    Golden Fleece!"
+Still the new boy turned his white young face from the
+    Land of the Great Release.--
+"_But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the
+    terms of peace._"
+
+
+
+
+SEA GHOSTS
+
+
+THE FLYING DUTCHMAN: CHARLES GODFREY LELAND
+
+We met the _Flying Dutchman_,
+  By midnight he came,
+His hull was all of hell fire,
+  His sails were all aflame;
+Fire on the main-top,
+  Fire on the bow,
+Fire on the gun-deck,
+  Fire down below.
+
+Four-and-twenty dead men,
+  Those were the crew,
+The devil on the bowsprit,
+  Fiddled as she flew,
+We gave her the broadside,
+  Right in the dip,
+Just like a candle,
+  Went out the ship.
+
+
+THE PHANTOM SHIP: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW
+
+In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
+  Of the old colonial time,
+May be found in prose the legend
+  That is here set down in rhyme.
+
+A ship sailed from New Haven,
+  And the keen and the frosty airs,
+That filled her sails at parting,
+  Were heavy with good men's prayers.
+
+"O Lord, if it be thy pleasure"--
+  Thus prayed the old divine--
+"To bury our friends in the ocean,
+  Take them, for they are thine."
+
+But Master Lamberton muttered,
+  And under his breath said he,
+"This ship is so crank and walty,
+  I fear our grave she will be!"
+
+And the ships that came from England,
+  When the winter months were gone,
+Brought no tidings of this vessel
+  Nor of Master Lamberton.
+
+This put the people to praying
+  That the Lord would let them hear
+What in his greater wisdom
+  He had done with their friends so dear.
+
+And at last their prayers were answered:
+  It was in the month of June,
+An hour before the sunset
+  Of a windy afternoon.
+
+When steadily steering landward,
+  A ship was seen below,
+And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
+  Who sailed so long ago.
+
+On she came with a cloud of canvas,
+  Right against the wind that blew,
+Until the eye could distinguish
+  The faces of the crew.
+
+Then fell her straining topmasts,
+  Hanging tangled in the shrouds.
+And her sails were loosened and lifted,
+  And blown away like clouds.
+
+And the masts, with all their rigging,
+  Fell slowly, one by one,
+And the hulk dilated and vanished,
+  As a sea-mist in the sun!
+
+And the people who saw this marvel
+  Each said unto his friend,
+That this was the mould of the vessel,
+  And thus her tragic end.
+
+And the pastor of the village
+  Gave thanks to God in prayer,
+That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
+  He had sent this ship of air.
+
+
+THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES
+CHALEURS: ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON
+
+'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway
+Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay,
+'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
+In ripples that reach to the forest side;
+'Tis the fisherman's boat, in the track of sheen,
+Plying through tangled seaweed green,
+        O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+Who has not heard of the phantom light
+That over the moaning waves at night
+Dances and drifts in endless play,
+Close to the shore, then far away,
+Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
+Cold as the winter light that lies
+        On the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+They tell us that many a year ago,
+From lands where the palm and olive grow,
+Where vines with their purple clusters creep
+Over the hillsides gray and steep,
+A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
+Famed in that chivalrous time of old,
+For valorous deeds and courage rare,
+Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
+        To the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
+A murderous band as e'er could be,
+With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
+That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight,
+Swept in the wake of the lovers there,
+And sank the ship and its freight so fair
+        In the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell,--
+They say that a ball of fire fell
+Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
+Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
+That the ship with a shudder and a groan,
+Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
+        Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+That was the last of the pirate crew,
+But many a night a black flag flew
+From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
+By a spectre band that wept and wailed,
+For the wreck they had wrought on the sea and the land,
+For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand,
+        Of the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+This is the tale of the phantom light,
+That fills the mariner's heart at night,
+With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay,
+Now by the shore, then far away,
+Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
+Cold as the winter moon that lies
+        On the Baie des Chaleurs.
+
+
+THE SANDS OF DEE: CHARLES KINGSLEY
+
+"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
+        And call the cattle home,
+        And call the cattle home,
+      Across the sands of Dee!"
+The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
+      And all alone went she.
+
+The western tide crept up along the sand,
+        And o'er and o'er the sand,
+        And round and round the sand,
+      As far as eye could see.
+The rolling mist came down and hid the land--
+      And never home came she.
+
+"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
+        A tress of golden hair,
+        A drowned maiden's hair
+      Above the nets at sea?
+Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
+      Among the stakes of Dee."
+
+They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
+        The cruel, crawling foam,
+        The cruel, hungry foam,
+      To her grave beside the sea,
+But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
+      Across the sands of Dee!
+
+
+THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP: THOMAS MOORE
+
+"They made her a grave too cold and damp
+    For a soul so warm and true;
+And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
+Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
+    She paddles her white canoe.
+
+And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
+    And her paddle I soon shall hear;
+Long and loving our life shall be,
+And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
+    When the footstep of death is near!"
+
+Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,--
+    His path was rugged and sore,
+Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
+Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
+    And man never trod before!
+
+And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
+    If slumber his eyelids knew,
+He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
+Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
+    The flesh with blistering dew!
+
+And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
+    And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
+Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
+"Oh, when shall I see the dusky Lake,
+    And the white canoe of my dear?"
+
+He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
+    Quick over its surface played,--
+"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
+And the dim shore echoed for many a night,
+    The name of the death-cold maid!
+
+He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
+    Which carried him off from shore;
+Far he followed the meteor spark,
+The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
+    And the boat returned no more.
+
+But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
+    This lover and maid so true,
+Are seen at the hour of midnight damp,
+To cross the lake by a firefly lamp,
+    And paddle their white canoe!
+
+
+THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF THE TAPPAN ZEE: ARTHUR GUITERMAN
+
+On Tappan Zee a shroud of gray
+    Is heavy, dank, and low.
+And dimly gleams the beacon-ray
+    Of white Pocantico.
+
+No skipper braves old Hudson now
+    Where Nyack's Headlands frown,
+And safely moored is every prow
+    Of drowsy Tarrytown;
+
+Yet, clear as word of human lip,
+    The river sends its shores
+The rhythmic rullock-clank and drip
+    Of even-rolling oars.
+
+What rower plies a reckless oar
+    With mist on flood and strand?
+That Oarsman toils forevermore
+    And ne'er shall reach the land.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Roystering, rollicking Ram van Dam,
+Fond of a frolic and fond of a dram,
+Fonder--yea, fonder, proclaims renown,--
+Of Tryntje Bogardus of Tarrytown,
+Leaves Spuyten Duyvil to roar his song!
+Pull! For the current is sly and strong;
+Nestles the robin and flies the bat.
+Ho! for the frolic at Kakiat!
+
+Merry, the sport at the quilting bee
+Held at the farm on the Tappan Zee!
+Jovial labor with quips and flings,
+Dances with wonderful pigeon wings,
+Twitter of maidens and clack of dames,
+Honest flirtations and rousing games;
+Platters of savory beef and brawn,
+Buckets of treacle and good suppawn,
+Oceans of cider, and beer in lakes,
+Mountains of crullers and honey-cakes--
+Such entertainment could never pall!
+Rambout Van Dam took his fill of all;
+Laughed with the wittiest, worked with a zest,
+Danced with the prettiest, drank with the best.
+
+Oh! that enjoyment should breed annoy!
+Tryntje grew fickle or cold or coy;
+Rambout, possessed of a jealous sprite,
+Scowled like the sky on a stormy night,
+Snarled a good-bye from his sullen throat,
+Blustered away to his tugging boat.
+After him hastened Jacobus Horn:
+"Stay with us, Rambout, till Monday morn.
+Soon in the east will the dawn be gray,
+Rest from thy oars on the Sabbath Day."
+
+Angrily Rambout van Dam ripped back:
+"Dunder en Blitzen! du Schobbejak!
+Preach to thy children! and let them know
+Spite of the duyvil and thee, I'll row
+Thousands of Sundays, if need there be,
+Home o'er this ewig-vervlekte zee!"
+Muttering curses, he headed south.
+Jacob, astounded, with open mouth
+Watched him receding, when--crash on crash
+Volleyed the thunder! A hissing flash
+Smote on the river! He looked again.
+Rambout was gone from the sight of men!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Old Dunderberg with grumbling roar
+    Hath warned the fog to flee,
+But still that never-wearied oar
+    Is heard on Tappan Zee.
+
+A moon is closed on Hudson's breast
+    And lanterns gem the town;
+The phantom craft that may not rest
+    Plies ever, up and down,
+
+'Neath skies of blue and skies of gray,
+    In spite of wind or tide,
+Until the trump of Judgment Day--
+    A sound--and naught beside.
+
+
+THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED: JOYCE KILMER
+
+With drooping sail and pennant
+  That never a wind may reach,
+They float in sunless waters
+  Beside a sunless beach.
+Their misty masts and funnels
+  Are white as driven snow,
+And with a pallid radiance
+  Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
+
+Here is a Spanish galleon
+  That once with gold was gay,
+Here is a Roman trireme
+  Whose hues outshone the day.
+But Tyrian dyes have faded,
+  And prows that once were bright
+With rainbow stains wear only
+  Death's livid, dreadful white.
+
+White as the ice that clove her
+  That unforgotten day,
+Among her pallid sisters
+  The grim _Titanic_ lay.
+And through the leagues above her
+  She looked aghast and said:
+"What is this living ship that comes
+  Where every ship is dead?"
+
+The ghostly vessels trembled
+  From ruined stern to prow;
+What was this thing of terror
+  That broke their vigil now?
+Down through the startled ocean
+  A mighty vessel came,
+Not white, as all dead ships must be,
+  But red, like living flame!
+
+The pale green waves above her
+  Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
+By the great scarlet stream that flowed
+  From out her wounded side.
+And all her decks were scarlet
+  And all her shattered crew.
+She sank among the white ghost ships
+  And stained them through and through.
+
+The grim _Titanic_ greeted her.
+  "And who art thou?" she said;
+"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
+  Arrayed in living red?
+We are the ships of sorrow
+  Who spend the weary night,
+Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
+  Obscure and still and white."
+
+"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
+  "Though I sink through the sea,
+A ruined thing that was a ship,
+  I sink not as did ye.
+For ye met with your destiny
+  By storm or rock or fight,
+So through the lagging centuries
+  Ye wear your robes of white.
+
+"But never crashing iceberg
+  Nor honest shot of foe,
+Nor hidden reef has sent me
+  The way that I must go.
+My wounds that stain the waters,
+  My blood that is like flame,
+Bear witness to a loathly deed,
+  A deed without a name.
+
+"I went not forth to battle,
+  I carried friendly men,
+The children played about my decks,
+  The women sang--and then--
+And then--the sun blushed scarlet
+  And Heaven hid its face,
+The world that God created
+  Became a shameful place!
+
+"My wrongs cry out for vengeance,
+  The blow that sent me here
+Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
+  Has reached Jehovah's ear.
+Not all the seven oceans
+  Shall wash away that stain;
+Upon the brow that wears a crown
+  I am the brand of Cain."
+
+When God's great voice assembles
+  The fleet on Judgment Day,
+The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
+  In sea and strait and bay.
+Though they have lain for ages
+  Beneath the changeless flood,
+They shall be white as silver,
+  But one--shall be like blood.
+
+
+FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
+
+Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom
+    A spell is on thy hand;
+The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
+    Thy web the twisting sand.
+
+Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,
+    On Blackrock's sullen shore:
+Till cordage of the sand shall coil
+    Where crested surges roar.
+
+'Tis for that hour, when from the wave
+    Near voices wildly cried;
+When thy stern hand no succour gave,
+    The cable at thy side.
+
+Twist thou and twine! In light and gloom
+    The spell is on thine hand;
+The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
+    Thy web the shifting sand.
+
+
+SEA-GHOSTS: MAY BYRON
+
+O' stormy nights, be they summer or winter,
+    Hurricane nights like these,
+When spar and topsail are rag and splinter
+    Hurled o'er the sluicing seas,
+
+To the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over,
+    Climb as you best may climb;
+Lie there and listen where mysteries hover,
+    Haunting the tides of Time.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles,
+    The great waves topple and pour,
+Full of the fury of ancient battles,
+    Clamant with cries of war.
+
+The gale has summoned, the night has beckoned--
+    Lo, from the east and west,
+Stately shadows arise unreckoned
+    Out of their deeps of rest!
+
+Wild on the wind are voices ringing,
+    Echoes that throng the air,
+Valiant voices, of victory singing,
+    Or dark with sublime despair.
+
+To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow,
+    The answering trumpets blow:
+War-horn and fife and cymbals follow,
+    From galleys of long ago.
+
+The crested breaker on reef and boulder
+    That swirls in cavernous black,
+Carries a challenge from decks that moulder
+    To ships that never came back.
+
+The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles
+    Are one in their wrath and might
+With the crash and clashing of armed vessels,
+    Grinding across the night.
+
+Out of the dark the broadsides thunder,
+    Clattering to and fro:
+The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder,
+    Are manning their wrecks below.
+
+You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle,
+    Shall mark on the surly blast
+Rush and tear of the rending tackle,
+    Thud of the falling mast.
+
+With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters,
+    Scourging the strand again,
+A terrible outcry leaps and shatters--
+    Tumult of drowning men.
+
+The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles--
+    Was never such fear as this!
+A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles
+    Out of the sea's abyss.
+
+It quails and quivers, its grassy verges
+    Vibrant with uttermost dread:
+It knows the groan of the laden surges,
+    The shout of the deathless Dead.
+
+In a rolling march of reverberations,
+    Marching with wind and tide,
+Heroes of unremembered nations
+    Vaunt their immortal pride.
+
+Briton, Spaniard, Phoenician, Roman,
+    Gallant implacable hosts--
+Locked in fight with phantom foeman,
+    Gather the grim sea-ghosts.
+
+
+FOG WRAITHS: MILDRED HOWELLS
+
+In from the ocean the white fog creeps,
+  Blotting out ship, and rock, and tree,
+While wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps,
+  Back to the land come the lost at sea.
+
+Over the weeping grass they drift
+  By well-known paths to their homes again,
+To finger the latch they may not lift
+  And peer through the glistering window-pane.
+
+Then in the churchyard each seeks the stone
+  To its memory raised among the rest,
+And they watch by their empty graves alone
+  Till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast.
+
+
+
+
+CHEERFUL SPIRITS
+
+
+CAPE HORN GOSPEL: JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen,
+  "And Bill, as was a seaman, died,
+So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin
+  And tumbled him across the side;
+And the fun of it was that all his gear was
+  Divided up among the crew
+Before that blushing human error
+  Our crawling little captain, knew.
+
+"On the passage home one morning
+  (As certain as I prays for grace)
+There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling
+  At the mizzen weather topsail brace.
+He was all grown green with seaweed
+  He was all lashed up and shored;
+So I says to him, I says, 'Why, Billy!
+  What's a-bringin' of you back aboard?'
+
+"'I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,'
+  Says old Bill's ghost to me;
+'It ain't no place for a Christian
+  Below there--under sea.
+For it's all blown sand and shipwrecks
+  And old bones eaten bare,
+And them cold fishy females
+  With long green weeds for hair.
+
+"'And there ain't no dances shuffled,
+  And no old yarns is spun,
+And there ain't no stars but starfish,
+  And never any moon or sun.
+I heard your keel a-passing
+  And the running rattle of the brace,
+And I says, "Stand by,"' says William,
+  '"For a shift towards a better place."'
+
+"Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise,
+  When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed,
+And as so much smoke he faded,
+  And as so much smoke he goed;
+And I've often wondered since, Jan,
+  How his old ghost stands to fare
+Long o' them cold fishy females
+  With long green weeds for hair."
+
+
+LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
+
+The Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
+With a troubled brow and a bended neck;
+One eye is down through the hatchway cast,
+The other turns up to the truck on the mast;
+Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
+"Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"
+
+The Captain again the letter hath read
+Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead--
+Still, since the good ship sail'd away,
+He reads that letter three times a-day;
+Yet the writing is broad and fair to see
+As a Skipper may read in his degree,
+And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,
+As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:
+He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,
+"Curse the old woman--she bothers me so!"
+
+He pauses now, for the topmen hail--
+"On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!"
+That grim old Captain he turns him quick,
+And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.
+"The breeze is blowing--huzza! huzza!
+The breeze is blowing--away! away!
+The breeze is blowing--a race! a race!
+The breeze is blowing--we near the chase!
+Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,--
+Oh, where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"
+
+--"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
+With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.
+Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,
+But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,
+Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew,
+And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,
+Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.
+Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;
+He stand by the breech of a long carronade,
+The linstock glows in his bony hand,
+Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.
+
+"The bullets are flying--huzza! huzza!
+The bullets are flying--away! away!"--
+The brawny boarders mount by the chains,
+And are over their buckles in blood and in brains.
+On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
+  Young Hamilton Tighe waves his cutlass high,
+And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.
+
+Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand,
+Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:--
+  A wink comes sly from that sinister eye--
+Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,
+And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!
+
+There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,
+Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:
+"Now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see
+How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!
+The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,
+They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy;
+  And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear,
+Now Hamilton's dead, I've ten thousand a-year!"
+
+The lady has donned her mantle and hood,
+She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:--
+"Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,
+And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul,
+And the tablet fair shall be hung on high,
+Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"
+
+Her coach and four Draws up to the door
+With her groom, and her footman, and a half score more
+The lady steps into her coach alone,
+And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan;
+They close the door, and they turn the pin,
+But there's One rides with her that never stept in!
+
+All the way there, and all the way back,
+The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,
+The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,
+Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick;
+And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say,
+"What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?"
+But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees
+A man sitting there with his head on his knees!
+
+'Tis ever the same--in hall or in bower,
+Wherever the place, whatever the hour,
+That Lady mutters, and talks to the air,
+And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair;
+But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,
+"She talks to a man with never a head!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath,
+As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath;
+And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,
+They seem to be trying to peep at his ears;
+That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms,
+And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes,
+For all his knaves stand upside down,
+And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown;
+And the Kings and the Aces, and all the best trumps
+Get into the hands of the other old frumps;
+While, close to his partner, a man he sees
+Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.
+
+In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,
+And a great black doll hangs out of the door;
+There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,
+And musty phials, and fusty rags,
+And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan,
+And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!
+
+That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,
+And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone;
+And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap
+That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!"
+And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick,
+"What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"
+
+That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man
+May say what they please, and may do what they can;
+But one things seems remarkably clear,--
+They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,--
+But wherever they live, or whenever they die,
+They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!
+
+
+THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION: THOMAS HOOD
+
+_A Pathetic Ballad_
+
+"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--_Mercutio._
+
+'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes,
+    When all in a hungry trim,
+Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup
+    With wife, and Kate and Jim.
+
+Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
+    How bravely I shall sup"--
+When, whiter than the tablecloth,
+    A ghost came rising up!
+
+"O father dear, O mother dear,
+    Dear Kate, and brother Jim--
+You know when some one went to sea--
+    Don't cry--but I am him!
+
+"You hope some day with fond embrace
+    To greet your lonesome Jack,
+But oh, I am come here to say
+    I'm never coming back!
+
+"From Alexandria we set sail,
+    With corn, and oil, and figs,
+But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
+    Upon the Sow and Pigs!
+
+"The ship we pumped till we could see
+    Old England from the tops;
+When down she went with all our hands,
+    Right in the Channel's Chops.
+
+"Just give a look in Norey's Chart,
+    The very place it tells:
+I think it says twelve fathom deep,
+    Clay bottom, mixed with shells.
+
+"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'
+    We have at last a call,
+The pug I had for brother Jim,
+    Kate's parrot, too, and all."
+
+"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
+    In Davy Jones's sod,
+Till I've appeared to you and said,
+    'Don't sup on that there Cod!
+
+"You live on land, and little think
+    What passes in the sea;
+Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,
+    That Cod was picking me!
+
+"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
+    And seem so nicely done,
+They put my corpse in many shells,
+    Instead of only one.
+
+"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then,
+    And do not touch the shrimps;
+When I was in my briny grave
+    They sucked my blood like imps!
+
+"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
+    The brutes I used to pat,
+They'll know the smell they used to smell,
+    Just try the dog and cat!"
+
+The spirit fled, they wept his fate,
+    And cried Alas, Alack!
+At last up started brother Jim--
+    "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"
+
+They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
+    The little Kitten, too,
+And down they put the Cod and sauce
+    To see what brutes would do.
+
+Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
+    Puss never stood at crimps,
+But munched the Cod--and little Kit
+    Quite feasted on the Shrimps!
+
+The thing was odd, and minus Cod
+    And sauce, they stood like posts;
+Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
+    Put no belief in Ghosts!
+
+
+THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
+
+_A Legend of Palestine and West Kent_
+
+Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
+  "Come east, come west,   Come lance in rest,
+Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best
+Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!"
+
+Oh, they came west, and they came east,
+Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
+  And they hammer'd away   At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,--
+But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
+  Twenty and three,   Of high degree,
+Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,
+All--all save one--and he ran up a tree!
+"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"
+  "Twenty and three! Twenty and three!--
+All of them nobles of high degree:
+There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"
+
+Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+  "What news? What news? Come tell to me!
+What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?--
+I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age
+  Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
+What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
+Come tell me now, thou page so small!"
+
+  "O, Hawk and Hound   Are safe and sound,
+Beast in byre and Steed in stall;
+  And the Watch-dog's bark,   As soon as it's dark
+Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"
+
+  --"I care not a pound   For Hawk or for Hound
+For Steed in stall or for Watch-dog's bay.
+  Fain would I hear   Of my dainty dear;
+How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"--
+Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,
+  "What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page."
+
+The little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,
+And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,
+"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:
+Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
+Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall.
+  She sits alone,   And she makes her moan;
+  Dance and song,   She considers quite wrong;
+  Feast and revel   Mere snares of the devil;
+She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
+When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"
+
+"Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page,
+Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me!
+  There in thy breast,   'Neath thy silken vest,
+What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"
+
+Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
+That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear;
+
+"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
+King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he,
+  And tidings rare   To him do I bear,
+And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"
+
+"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
+No learned clerk I trow am I,
+  But well I ween   May there be seen
+Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;
+Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
+From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
+  Although no clerk,   Well may I mark
+The particular turn of her P's and Q's!"
+
+Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage,
+By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
+  The scroll he seizes,   The page he squeezes,
+And buffets--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;--
+Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads
+Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's heads.
+
+When the contents of the scroll met his view,
+Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,
+  Backward he drew   His mailed shoe,
+And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew
+Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
+I may not say whither--I never knew.
+  "Now count the slain   Upon Ascalon plain--
+Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"
+
+  "Twenty and three! There they be,
+Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!--
+  Twenty and three?--Stay--let me see!
+  Stretched in his gore   There lieth one more!
+By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_!
+Twenty-four trunks I ween are there
+But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where!
+Ay, twenty-four corpses, I rede there be,
+Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"
+
+  "Look nigher, look nigher,   My trusty Squire!"
+  "One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!"
+
+  Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,
+  "Now Heav'n thee save,   A boon I crave,
+A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;
+  A year and a day   Have I been away,
+King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
+Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise,
+And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
+And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,
+And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
+Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'
+A boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he,
+"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"
+
+  "Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"
+King Richard said right graciously,
+"Of all in my host   That I love the most,
+I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
+Rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon;
+But mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"
+
+FYTTE II
+
+Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
+  Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,
+  And a belted Knight,   In armour dight,
+Is begging a boon on his bended knee,
+With sighs of grief and sounds of woe,
+Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.
+  "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
+  O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
+  In my fury and rage   A little Foot-page
+I have left, I fear me, in evil case:
+  A scroll of shame   From a faithless dame
+Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear:
+  I gave him a 'lick'   With a stick,   And a kick,
+That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where!
+Had he as many necks as hairs,
+He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"
+
+  "Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
+  A soldier, I trow,   Of the Cross art thou;
+Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee!
+Ill it seems that soldier true
+Of Holy Church should vainly sue:--
+--Foot-pages they are by no means rare,
+A thriftless crew, I ween, be they;
+  Well mote we spare   A Page--or a pair,
+For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+But stout and true   Soldiers like you,
+Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!--
+  Be prayers for the dead   Duly read,
+Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said:
+So may your qualms of conscience cease,
+And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"
+
+  "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
+O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
+  Dame Alice, my wife,   The bane of my life,
+I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
+A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
+Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
+'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
+Alack! and alack! too surely I knew
+The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
+And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
+  Dame Alice I found,--She sank on the ground,--
+I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
+With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff,
+I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!--
+All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
+Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"
+
+  "Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+Why really--I hardly know what to say:--
+Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
+Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.--
+--Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;
+For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
+  For a year and a day,   Sir Ingoldsby Bray
+A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
+So may his qualms of conscience cease,
+And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"
+
+"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
+  O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
+    No power could save   That paramour knave;
+  I left him, I wot, in evil case!
+    There midst the slain   Upon Ascalon plain,
+Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain
+His legs lie here and his arms lie there,
+And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"
+
+"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,
+    To hack and to hew   A champion true
+  Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
+  Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
+  When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!--
+    A chauntry fair,   And of Monks a pair,
+To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
+Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
+And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay
+  For plenty of lights   To burn there o' nights--
+None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound,
+Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;--
+And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
+For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!--
+So may your qualms of conscience cease,
+And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"
+
+"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay!
+Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
+"No champion free of the Cross was he;
+No belted Baron of high degree;
+  No Knight nor Squire   Did there expire;
+He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar!
+And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait,
+With his monks around him, and early and late,
+May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
+He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"
+
+"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said,
+And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head--
+"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!
+A horrible thing has come to pass!
+What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior,
+And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'--
+  'What Baron or Squire,   Or Knight of the shire
+Is half so good as a holy Friar?'
+  _O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!_
+_Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_
+Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_
+  Had before 'em   Such a breach of decorum,
+Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_,
+And won't have again _saecula saeculorum_!--
+  Come hither to me,   My Cardinals three,
+  My Bishops in _partibus_,   Masters in _Artibus_,
+  Hither to me, A.B. and D.D.,
+  Doctors and Proctors of every degree!
+Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell
+As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well--
+I'll send him where--good manners won't let me tell!"
+
+--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!"
+--Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face--
+"_Mea culpa!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
+Peccavi! peccavi!--I've done every wrong!
+But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong,
+And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;
+And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
+And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where,
+And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!"
+Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down,
+And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
+And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.
+
+"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
+And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong,
+And you really will fight like a trump all day long;--
+If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
+And Holy Church shall come in for her share,--
+  Why, my Cardinals three,   You'll agree    With me,
+That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
+And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
+--If it be so, as you seem to say,
+Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
+An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
+Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
+Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
+And there in that Abbey, all the year round,
+A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns,
+  And Sir Ingoldsby Bray,   Without delay,
+  Shall hie him again   To Ascalon plain,
+And gather the bones of the foully slain;
+And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
+In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
+  And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights--
+None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound,
+Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
+  And Monk and Nun   Shall pray, each one,
+For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!
+
+And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
+Never shall wash himself, comb or shave,
+  Nor adorn his body,   Nor drink gin-toddy,
+  Nor indulge in a pipe--   But shall dine upon tripe
+And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
+And forever abhor, renounce and abjure
+Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and _liqueur_!"
+
+  (Sir Ingoldsby Bray   Here gave way
+To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
+But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again,
+And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
+Mere repetition of _O mea culpa_!)
+
+"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day,
+Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
+Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
+  Subjecting his back   To thump and to thwack,
+Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
+With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire,
+  And not he nor his heir   Shall take, use or bear,
+  Any more from this day,   The surname of Bray,
+As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
+  Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!
+  So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease,
+  And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"
+
+Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
+Is off like a shot away and away,
+  Over the brine   To far Palestine,
+To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
+For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
+  "Look out, my Squire,   Look nigher and nigher,
+  Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!
+And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead,
+And pick up his body and pick up his head!"
+
+FYTTE III
+
+Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
+It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,
+With right of free-warren (whatever that be);
+Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
+All in full leaf at the right time of year;
+About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear,
+And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear;
+But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near
+The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.
+Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore
+Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more;
+Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind--and before
+You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.--
+  So charming a spot,   It's rarely one's lot
+To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.
+
+Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
+And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
+And there they all stand each in their degree,
+Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
+Two by two in their regular mode,
+While a funeral comes down the Rochester road,
+Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,
+Cockle in hat and staff in hand,
+Come marching in pairs, a holy band!
+Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
+Each with his brazen censer bright,
+And singing away with all his might,
+Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight;
+  Next high in air   Twelve Yeomen bear
+On their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care,
+A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd
+Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),
+And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.
+  Close by his side   Is a Friar, supplied
+With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide,
+  While all sorts of queer men
+  Bring up the rear--Men-at-arms,
+Nigger captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men.
+
+  It boots not to tell   What you'll guess very well,
+How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell;
+  Suffice it to say,   'Twas on Candlemas-day
+The procession I speak of reached the _Sacellum_:
+  And in lieu of a supper   The Knight on his crupper
+Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;--
+  That, as chronicles tell,   He continued to dwell
+All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,
+By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
+And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
+Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns;
+--That year after year, having run round the _Quad_
+With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,
+Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he
+Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity,
+When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe
+What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve
+The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
+Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright,
+  Alarm'd by the bawls,   And the calls and the squalls
+Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!
+
+  Looking out, soon   By the light of the moon
+There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,
+And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
+The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
+  As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's,
+And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
+A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
+A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
+While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders
+Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
+  But is holding his pate,   In his left hand, out straight
+As if by a closer inspection to find
+Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
+With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"--as placed
+By our own new police,--in a belt round his waist.
+  All gaze with surprise,   Scarce believing their eyes,
+When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies
+From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,--
+In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
+"Running after him," so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!"
+Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
+Course round the Abbey as best he might
+Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,
+While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,--
+Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!
+
+Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
+  And at this time of day   One can hardly survey
+Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey
+With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
+Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
+But still there are many folks living who say
+That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight,
+  Accoutred, and dight   In his armour bright,
+With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite,
+With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
+Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
+And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood;
+More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
+You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy;
+  And that once in a gale   Of wind, sleet and hail
+They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.
+
+  What 'tis breaks the rest   Of those souls unblest
+Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed,
+Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
+  That on Ascalon plain,   When the bones of the slain
+Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest,
+  Caulk'd and made water-tight,
+  By command of the Knight,
+Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,
+And the body itself in a decentish plight,
+Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight;
+So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead,
+And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!
+Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,
+And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.
+
+Now, though this might be,   It don't seem to agree
+With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,--
+I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine
+Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
+Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
+This _fact_ with the reason these people assign,
+Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine
+Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_."
+'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may,
+The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray),
+It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small
+About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall,
+Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall
+And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.
+So I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
+My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,
+  Viz: that, spite of the hope   Held out by the Pope,
+Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d----d after all!
+
+MORAL
+
+Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,
+In livery or out of it, listen to me!
+See what comes of lying!--don't join in the league
+To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!
+
+Ladies! married and single, from this understand
+How foolish it is to send letters by hand!
+Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you
+  've a billet to send   To a lover or friend,
+Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!
+
+Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam,
+Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!
+But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;
+Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives!
+And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads
+When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS"!
+
+Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong,
+Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
+If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
+Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them downstairs!
+To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,
+"If you want matters well managed, Go!--if not, Send!"
+A servant's too often a negligent elf!
+--If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!
+
+The state of society seldom requires
+People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,
+But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life;
+Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife!
+For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,
+  To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead
+Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!
+
+
+POMPEY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD
+
+'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night,
+    But twelve o'clock at noon;
+Because the sun was shining bright
+    And not the silver moon.
+A proper time for friends to call,
+    Or pots, or penny-post;
+When lo! as Phoebe sat at work,
+    She saw her Pompey's ghost!
+
+Now when a female has a call
+    From people that are dead,
+Like Paris ladies, she receives
+    Her visitors in bed.
+But Pompey's spirit would not come
+    Like spirits that are white,
+Because he was a Blackamoor,
+    And wouldn't show at night!
+
+
+But of all unexpected things
+    That happen to us here,
+The most unpleasant is a rise
+    In what is very dear.
+So Phoebe screamed an awful scream
+    To prove the seaman's text,
+That after black appearances,
+    White squalls will follow next.
+
+"O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear!
+    Don't go and scream or faint;
+You think because I'm black, I am
+    The Devil, but I ain't!
+Behind the heels of Lady Lambe
+    I walked while I had breath,
+But that is past, and I am now
+    A-walking after death!
+
+"No murder, though, I come to tell,
+    By base and bloody crime;
+So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits
+    To some more fitting time.
+No coroner, like a boatswain's mate,
+    My body need attack,
+With his round dozen to find out
+    Why I have died so black.
+
+"One Sunday, shortly after tea,
+    My skin began to burn,
+As if I had in my inside
+    A heater like a urn.
+Delirious in the night I grew,
+    And as I lay in bed,
+They say I gathered all the wool
+    You see upon my head.
+
+"His lordship for his doctor sent,
+    My treatment to begin;
+I wish that he had called him out
+    Before he called him in!
+For though to physic he was bred,
+    And passed at Surgeons' Hall,
+To make his post a sinecure,
+    He never cured at all!
+
+"The Doctor looked about my breast
+    And then about my back,
+And then he shook his head and said,
+    'Your case looks very black.'
+At first he sent me hot cayenne,
+    And then gamboge to swallow.
+But still my fever would not turn
+    To scarlet or to yellow!
+
+"With madder and with turmeric,
+    He made his next attack;
+But neither he nor all his drugs
+    Could stop my dying black.
+At last I got so sick of life,
+    And sick of being dosed,
+One Monday morning I gave up
+    My physic and the ghost!
+
+"Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was
+    To sever every tie!
+You know black beetles feel as much
+    As giants when they die.
+And if there is a bridal bed,
+    Or bride of little worth,
+It's lying in a bed of mould,
+    Along with Mother Earth.
+
+"Alas! Some happy, happy day,
+    In church I hoped to stand,
+And like a muff of sable skin
+    Receive your lily hand.
+But sternly with that piebald match,
+    My fate untimely clashes;
+For now, like Pompey-double-i,
+    I'm sleeping in my ashes!
+
+"And now farewell! a last farewell!
+    I'm wanted down below,
+And have but time enough to add
+    One word before I go--
+In mourning crepe and bombazine
+    Ne'er spend your precious pelf;
+Don't go in black for me--for I
+    Can do it for myself.
+
+"Henceforth within my grave I rest,
+    But Death, who there inherits,
+Allowed my spirit leave to come,
+    You seemed so near your spirits:
+But do not sigh, and do not cry,
+    By grief too much engrossed,
+Nor for a ghost of color turn
+    The color of a ghost!
+
+"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear!
+    Once more a last adieu!
+For I must make myself as scarce
+    As swans of sable hue."
+From black to gray, from gray to nought
+    The shape began to fade--
+And like an egg, though not so white,
+    The ghost was newly laid!"
+
+
+THE GHOST: THOMAS HOOD
+
+_A Very Serious Ballad_
+
+In Middle Row, some years ago,
+    There lived one Mr. Brown;
+And many folks considered him
+    The stoutest man in town.
+
+But Brown and stout will both wear out--
+    One Friday he died hard,
+And left a widow'd wife to mourn
+    At twenty pence a yard.
+
+Now widow B. in two short months
+    Thought mourning quite a tax;
+And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
+    To _manumit_ her blacks.
+
+With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
+    The thing came thus about:
+She asked him in at home, and then
+    At church, he asked her out!
+
+Assurance such as this the man
+    In ashes could not stand;
+So like a Phoenix he rose up
+    Against the Hand in Hand!
+
+One dreary night the angry sprite
+    Appeared before her view;
+It came a little after one,
+    But she was after two!
+
+"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,
+    Are these your sorrow's deeds,
+Already getting up a flame
+    To burn your widows' weeds?
+
+"It's not so long since I have left
+    For aye the mortal scene;
+My memory--like Rogers's--
+    Should still be bound in green!
+
+"Yet if my face you still retrace
+    I almost have a doubt--
+I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not
+    With all the leaves torn out!
+
+"To think that on that finger-joint
+    Another pledge should cling;
+O Bess! upon my very soul
+    It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'
+
+"A ton of marble on my breast
+    Can't hinder my return;
+Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood
+    A-boiling in its urn!
+
+"Remember, oh, remember how
+    The marriage rite did run,--
+If ever we one flesh should be
+    'Tis now--when I have none!
+
+"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend--
+    Of perjured faith convict,
+As ghostly toe can give no blow,
+    Consider yourself kicked.
+
+"A hollow voice is all I have,
+    But this I tell you plain,
+Marry come up! you marry, ma'am,
+    And I'll come up again."
+
+More he had said, but chanticleer
+    The spritely shade did shock
+With sudden crow--and off he went
+    Like fowling piece at cock!
+
+
+MARY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD
+
+_A Pathetic Ballad_
+
+'Twas in the middle of the night,
+    To sleep young William tried,
+When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
+    And stood at his bedside.
+
+"O William dear! O William dear!
+    My rest eternal ceases;
+Alas! my everlasting peace
+    Is broken into pieces.
+
+"I thought the last of all my cares
+    Would end with my last minute;
+But though I went to my long home
+    I didn't stay long in it.
+
+"The body-snatchers they have come
+    And made a snatch at me;
+It's very hard them kind of men
+    Won't let a body be!
+
+"You thought that I was buried deep,
+    Quite decent-like and chary,
+But from her grave, in Mary-Bone,
+    They've come and boned your Mary.
+
+"The arm that used to take your arm
+    Is took to Doctor Vyse;
+And both my legs are gone to walk
+    The hospital at Guy's.
+
+"I vowed that you should have my hand,
+    But Fate gives us denial;
+You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's,
+    In spirits and a phial.
+
+"As for my feet, the little feet
+    You used to find so pretty,
+There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
+    The T'other's in the City.
+
+"I can't tell where my head is gone,
+    But Doctor Carpue can;
+As for my trunk, it's all packed up
+    To go by Pickford's van.
+
+"I wish you'd go to Mr. P.,
+    And save me such a ride;
+I don't half like the outside place
+    They've took for my inside.
+
+"The cock it crows--I must be gone!
+    My William, we must part!
+But I'll be yours in death, altho'
+    Sir Astley has my heart.
+
+"Don't go to weep upon my grave,
+    And think that there I be;
+They haven't left an atom there
+    Of my anatomie."
+
+
+THE SUPERSTITIOUS GHOST: ARTHUR GUITERMAN
+
+I'm such a quiet little ghost,
+  Demure and inoffensive,
+The other spirits say I'm most
+  Absurdly apprehensive.
+
+Through all the merry hours of night
+  I'm uniformly cheerful;
+I love the dark; but in the light,
+  I own I'm rather fearful.
+
+Each dawn I cower down in bed,
+  In every brightness seeing
+That weird uncanny form of dread--
+  An awful Human Being!
+
+Of course I'm told they can't exist,
+  That Nature would not let them:
+But Willy Spook, the Humanist,
+  Declares that he has met them!
+
+He says they do not glide like us,
+  But walk in eerie paces;
+They're solid, not diaphanous,
+  With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!
+
+And some are beggars, some are kings,
+  Some have and some are wanting,
+They squander time in doing things,
+  Instead of simply haunting.
+
+They talk of "art," the horrid crew,
+  And things they call "ambitions."--
+Oh, yes, I know as well as you
+  They're only superstitions.
+
+But should the dreadful day arrive
+  When, starting up, I see one,
+I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive;
+  And then--Oh, then I'll be one!
+
+
+DAVE LILLY: JOYCE KILMER
+
+There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be
+    full of trout,
+But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say
+    it is all fished out.
+I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years
+    ago,
+And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.
+
+There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North
+    Adams road,
+And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors
+    reaped and sowed.
+He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I
+    think.
+And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and
+    drink.
+
+Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very
+    much;
+They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers
+    and such,
+But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you
+    could wish,
+He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly
+    could fish.
+
+The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown
+And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped
+    on the bridge and sat down.
+I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of
+    white,
+And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the
+    Summer night.
+
+And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could
+    feel
+The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum
+    of a reel.
+And the water was churned and broken, and something
+    was brought to land
+By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and
+    shadowy hand.
+
+I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all
+    about;
+There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of
+    a trout.
+But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak
+And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.
+
+It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that
+    brook;
+And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the
+    bait off your hook.
+But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set
+I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.
+
+I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye
+And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.
+I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave
+And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave.
+
+
+MARTIN: JOYCE KILMER
+
+When I am tired of earnest men,
+  Intense and keen and sharp and clever,
+Pursuing fame with brush or pen,
+  Or counting metal disks forever,
+Then from the halls of Shadowland,
+  Beyond the trackless purple sea,
+Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand
+  Beside my desk and talk to me.
+
+Still on his delicate pale face
+  A quizzical thin smile is showing,
+His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,
+  His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.
+He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,
+  A suit to match his soft grey hair,
+A rakish stick, a knowing hat,
+  A manner blithe and debonair.
+
+How good that he who always knew
+  That being lovely was a duty,
+Should have gold halls to wander through
+  And should himself inhabit beauty.
+How like his old unselfish way
+  To leave those halls of splendid mirth
+And comfort those condemned to stay
+  Upon the dull and sombre earth.
+
+Some people ask: "What cruel chance
+  Made Martin's life so sad a story?"
+Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,
+  And wore an overcoat of glory.
+A fleck of sunlight in the street,
+  A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,
+Such visions made each moment sweet
+  For this receptive ancient child.
+
+Because it was old Martin's lot
+  To be, not make, a decoration,
+Shall we then scorn him, having not
+  His genius of appreciation?
+Rich joy and love he got and gave;
+  His heart was merry as his dress;
+Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave
+  Who did not gain, but was, success!
+
+
+
+
+HAUNTED PLACES
+
+
+THE LISTENERS: WALTER DE LA MARE
+
+"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller,
+    Knocking on the moonlit door;
+And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
+    Of the forest's ferny floor:
+And a bird flew up out of the turret,
+    Above the Traveller's head:
+And he smote upon the door again the second time;
+    "Is there anybody there?" he said.
+But no one descended to the Traveller;
+    No head from the leaf-fringed sill
+Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,
+    Where he stood perplexed and still.
+But only the host of phantom listeners
+    That dwelt in the lone house then
+Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
+    To that voice from the world of men:
+Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair,
+    That goes down to the empty hall,
+Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
+    By the lonely Traveller's call:
+And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
+    Their stillness answering his cry,
+While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
+    'Neath the starred and leafy sky.
+For he suddenly smote upon the door, even
+    Louder, and lifted his head:--
+"Tell them I came and no one answered,
+    That I kept my word," he said.
+Never the least stir made the listeners,
+    Though every word he spake
+Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
+    From the one man left awake:
+Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
+    And the sound of iron on stone,
+And how the silence surged softly backward,
+    When the plunging hoofs were gone.
+
+
+HAUNTED HOUSES: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW
+
+All houses wherein men have lived and died
+  Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
+The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
+  With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
+
+We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
+  Along the passages they come and go,
+Impalpable impressions on the air,
+  A sense of something moving to and fro.
+
+There are more guests at table than the hosts
+  Invited; the illuminated hall
+Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
+  As silent as the pictures on the wall.
+
+The stranger at my fireside cannot see
+  The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear;
+He but perceives what is; while unto me
+  All that has been is visible and clear.
+
+We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
+  Owners and occupants of earlier dates
+From graves forgotten stretch their hands,
+  And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
+
+The spirit-world around this world of sense
+  Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
+Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
+  A vital breath of more ethereal air.
+
+Our little lives are kept in equipoise
+  By opposite attractions and desires:
+The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
+  And the more noble instinct that aspires.
+
+These perturbations, this perpetual jar
+  Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
+Come from the influence of an unseen star,
+  An undiscovered planet in our sky.
+
+And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
+  Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
+Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
+  Into the realm of mystery and night--
+
+So from the world of spirits there descends,
+  A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
+O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
+  Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
+
+
+THE BELEAGUERED CITY: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
+
+I have read in some old marvellous tale,
+    Some legend strange and vague,
+That a midnight host of spectres pale
+    Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
+
+Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
+    With the wan moon overhead,
+There stood, as in an awful dream,
+    The army of the dead.
+
+White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
+    The spectral band was seen,
+And with a sorrowful deep sound,
+    The river flowed between.
+
+No other voice nor sound was there,
+    No drum nor sentry's pace,
+The mist-like banners clasped the air
+    As clouds with clouds embrace.
+
+And when the old cathedral bell
+    Proclaimed the morning prayer,
+The white pavilions rose and fell
+    On the alarmed air.
+
+Down the broad valley fast and far
+    The troubled army fled:
+Up rose the glorious morning star,
+    The ghastly host was dead.
+
+I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
+    That strange and mystic scroll,
+That an army of phantoms vast and wan
+    Beleaguer the human soul.
+
+Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
+    In Fancy's misty light,
+Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
+    Portentous through the night.
+
+Upon its midnight battle-ground
+    The spectral camp is seen,
+And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
+    Flows the River of Life between.
+
+No other voice nor sound is there,
+    In the army of the grave;
+No other challenge breaks the air,
+    But the rushing of Life's wave.
+
+And then the solemn and deep church-bell
+    Entreats the soul to pray,
+The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
+    The shadows sweep away.
+
+Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
+    The spectral camp is fled;
+Faith shineth as a morning star,
+    Our ghastly fears are dead.
+
+
+A NEWPORT ROMANCE: BRET HARTE
+
+They say that she died of a broken heart
+    (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me);
+But her spirit lives, and her soul is part
+    Of this sad old house by the sea.
+
+Her lover was fickle and fine and French;
+    It was more than a hundred years ago
+When he sailed away from her arms,--poor wench!--
+    With the Admiral Rochambeau.
+
+I marvel much what periwigged phrase
+    Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker,
+At what gold-laced speech of those modish days
+    She listened,--the mischief take her!
+
+But she kept the posies of mignonette
+    That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed
+And faded (though with her tears still wet)
+    Her youth with their own exhaled.
+
+Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud
+    Round spar and spire and tarn and tree,
+Her soul went up on that lifted cloud
+    From this sad old house by the sea.
+
+And ever since then, when the clock strikes two,
+    She walks unbidden from room to room,
+And the air is filled as she passes through
+    With a subtle, sad perfume.
+
+The delicate odor of mignonette,
+    The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet,
+Is all that tells of her story; yet
+    Could she think of a sweeter way?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I sit in the sad old house to-night--
+    Myself a ghost from a farther sea;
+And I trust that this Quaker woman might,
+    In courtesy, visit me.
+
+For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn,
+    And the bugle died from the fort on the hill,
+And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone,
+    And the grand piano is still.
+
+Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two;
+    And there is no sound in the sad old house,
+But the long veranda dripping with dew,
+    And in the wainscot a mouse.
+
+The light of my study-lamp streams out
+    From the library door, but has gone astray
+In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt
+    But the Quakeress knows the way.
+
+Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought
+    With outward watching and inward fret?
+But I swear that the air just now was fraught
+    With the odor of mignonette!
+
+I open the window and seem almost--
+    So still lies the ocean--to hear the beat
+Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast,
+    And to bask in its tropic heat.
+
+In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare
+    As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss;
+And I wonder now could I fit that air
+    To the song of this sad old house.
+
+And no odor of mignonette there is,
+    But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn;
+And maybe from causes as slight as this
+    The quaint old legend was born.
+
+But the soul of that subtle sad perfume,
+    As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast
+The mummy laid in his rocky tomb,
+    Awakens my buried past.
+
+And I think of the passion that shook my youth,
+    Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,
+And am thankful now for the certain truth
+    That only the sweet remains.
+
+And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade,
+    And I see no face at my library door;
+For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid,
+    She is viewless forevermore.
+
+But whether she came as a faint perfume,
+    Or whether a spirit in stole of white,
+I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,
+    She has been with my soul to-night.
+
+
+A LEGEND: MAY KENDALL
+
+Ay, an old story, yet it might
+    Have truth in it--who knows?
+Of the heroine's breaking down one night
+    Just ere the curtain rose.
+
+And suddenly, when fear and doubt
+  Had shaken every heart,
+There stepped an unknown actress out,
+  To take the heroine's part.
+
+But oh, the magic of her face,
+  And oh the songs she sung,
+And oh the rapture of the place,
+  And oh the flowers they flung!
+
+But she never stooped: they lay all night,
+  As when she turned away,
+And left them--and the saddest light
+  Shone in her eyes of grey.
+
+She gave a smile in glancing round,
+  And sighed, one fancied, then--
+But never they knew where she was bound,
+  Or saw her face again,
+
+But the old prompter, grey and frail,
+ They heard him murmur low,
+"It only could be Meg Coverdale,
+  Died thirty years ago,
+
+"In that old part, who took the town;
+  And she was fair, as fair
+As when they shut the coffin down
+  On the gleam of her golden hair;
+
+"And it wasn't hard to understand
+  How a lass as fair as she
+Could never rest in the Promised Land,
+  Where none but angels be."
+
+
+A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN
+
+After all the house is dark,
+  And the last soft step is still,
+And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow
+  Flickers on the window sill--
+
+When the village lights are out,
+  And the watch-dogs all asleep,
+And the misty silver radiance
+  Makes the shade look black and deep--
+
+When, so silent is the night,
+  Not a dead leaf dares to fall,
+And I only hear the death-watch
+  Ticking, ticking in the wall--
+
+When no hidden mouse dares gnaw
+  At the silence dead and dumb,
+And the very air seems waiting
+  For a Something that should come--
+
+Suddenly, there stands my guest,
+  Whence he came I cannot see;
+Not a door has swung before him,
+  Not a hand touched latch or key,
+
+Not a rustle stirred the air;
+  Yet he stands there, brave and mute,
+In his eyes a look of greeting,
+  In his hand an old-time flute.
+
+Then, with all the courtly grace
+  Of the old Colonial school,
+From the curtain-shadowed corner
+  Forth he draws a three-legged stool--
+
+(Ah, it was not there before!
+  Search as closely as I may,
+I can never, never find it
+  When I look for it by day!)
+
+Places it beside my bed,
+  And while silently I gaze
+Spell-bound by his mystic presence,
+  Seats himself thereon and plays.
+
+Gracious, stately, grave and tall,
+  Always dressed from crown to toe
+In the quaint elaborate fashion
+  Of a hundred years ago.
+
+Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose;
+  Wears my midnight melodist,
+Snowy ruffles in his bosom,
+  Snowy ruffles at his wrist.
+
+Silver buckle at his knee,
+  Silver buckle on his shoe;
+Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited
+  In a stiff old-fashioned queue.
+
+If I stir he vanishes;
+  If I speak he flits away;
+If I lie in utter silence,
+  He will sit for hours and play;
+
+Play old wailing minor airs,
+  Melancholy, wild and slow,
+Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens
+  Of a hundred years ago.
+
+All in vain I wait to hear
+  Ghostly histories of wrong
+Unconfessed and unforgiven,
+  Unavenged and suffered long;
+
+Not a story does he tell,
+  Not a single word he says--
+Only sits and gazes at me
+  Steadily, and plays and plays.
+
+Who is he, my midnight guest?
+  Wherefore does he haunt me so;
+Coming from the misty shadows
+  Of a hundred years ago?
+
+
+HAUNTED: AMY LOWELL
+
+See! He trails his toes
+Through the long streaks of moonlight,
+And the nails of his fingers glitter;
+They claw and flash among the tree-tops.
+His lips suck at my open window,
+And his breath creeps about my body
+And lies in pools under my knees.
+I can see his mouth sway and wobble,
+Sticking itself against the window-jambs,
+But the moonlight is bright on the floor,
+Without a shadow.
+Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest,
+And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.
+
+
+THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE
+
+Some one is always sitting there,
+                        In the little green orchard;
+      Even when the sun is high
+      In noon's unclouded sky,
+      And faintly droning goes
+      The bee from rose to rose,
+Some one in shadow is sitting there,
+                        In the little green orchard.
+
+Yes, and when twilight's falling softly
+                        On the little green orchard;
+      When the gray dew distils
+      And every flower cup fills;
+      When the last blackbird says,
+      "What--what!" and goes her way--ssh!
+I have heard voices calling softly
+                        In the little green orchard.
+
+Not that I am afraid of being there,
+                        In the little green orchard;
+      Why, when the moon's been bright,
+      Shedding her lonesome light,
+      And moths like ghosties come,
+      And the horned snail leaves home:
+I've stayed there, whispering and listening there,
+                        In the little green orchard.
+
+Only it's strange to be feeling there,
+                        In the little green orchard;
+      Whether you paint or draw,
+      Dig, hammer, chop or saw,
+When you are most alone,
+      All but the silence gone ...
+Some one is waiting and watching there,
+                        In the little green orchard.
+
+
+FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL
+
+What are you, fireflies,
+That come as daylight dies?
+Are you the old, old dead,
+Creeping through the long grass,
+To see the green leaves move
+And feel the light wind pass?
+
+The larkspur in my garden
+  Is a sea of rose and blue,
+The white moth is a ghost ship
+  Drifting through.
+
+The shadows fall like lilacs
+  Raining from a garden sky,
+Pollen laden bees go home,
+  Bird songs die.
+
+The honeysuckle breaks a flask,
+  And a breeze, on pleasure bent,
+Catches in her little hands
+  The sharp scent.
+
+In the darkness and the dew
+  Come the little, flying flames,
+Are they the forgotten dead,
+  Without names?
+
+Did they love the leaves and wind,
+  Grass and gardens long ago
+With a love that draws them home
+  Where things grow?
+
+For an hour with green leaves,
+  Love immortal leaped to flame,
+From the earth into the night
+  Old hearts came.
+
+What are you, fireflies,
+That come as daylight dies?
+
+
+THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
+
+I knew her for a little ghost
+    That in my garden walked;
+The wall is high--higher than most--
+    And the green gate was locked.
+
+And yet I did not think of that
+    Till after she was gone--
+I knew her by the broad white hat,
+    All ruffled, she had on.
+
+By the dear ruffles round her feet,
+    By her small hands that hung
+In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
+    Her gown's white folds among.
+
+I watched to see if she would stay,
+    What she would do--and oh!
+She looked as if she liked the way
+    I let my garden grow!
+
+She bent above my favorite mint
+  With conscious garden grace,
+She smiled and smiled--there was no hint
+  Of sadness in her face.
+
+She held her gown on either side
+  To let her slippers show,
+And up the walk she went with pride,
+  The way great ladies go.
+
+And where the wall is built in new
+  And is of ivy bare
+She paused--then opened and passed through
+  A gate that once was there.
+
+
+HAUNTED: LOUIS UNTERMEYER
+
+Between the moss and stone
+  The lonely lilies rise;
+Wasted and overgrown
+  The tangled garden lies.
+Weeds climb about the stoop
+  And clutch the crumbling walls;
+The drowsy grasses droop--
+  The night wind falls.
+
+The place is like a wood;
+  No sign is there to tell
+Where rose and iris stood
+  That once she loved so well.
+Where phlox and asters grew,
+  A leafless thornbush stands,
+And shrubs that never knew
+  Her tender hands....
+
+Over the broken fence
+  The moonbeams trail their shrouds;
+Their tattered cerements
+  Cling to the gauzy clouds,
+In ribbons frayed and thin--
+  And startled by the light
+Silence shrinks deeper in
+  The depths of night.
+
+Useless lie spades and rakes;
+  Rust's on the garden-tools.
+Yet, where the moonlight makes
+  Nebulous silver pools
+A ghostly shape is cast--
+  Something unseen has stirred....
+Was it a breeze that passed?
+  Was it a bird?
+
+Dead roses lift their heads
+  Out of a grassy tomb;
+From ruined pansy-beds
+  A thousand pansies bloom.
+The gate is opened wide--
+  The garden that has been
+Now blossoms like a bride....
+  _Who entered in?_
+
+
+GHOSTS: MADISON CAWEIN
+
+Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon
+          The sea-mists swoon:
+Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow
+          Goes winging slow:
+Dim fields the sower never sows,
+          Or reaps or mows:
+And near the sea a ghostly house of stone
+          Where all is old and lone.
+
+A garden, falling in decay,
+          Where statues gray
+Peer, broken, out of tangled weed
+          And thorny seed;
+Satyr and Nymph, that once made love
+          By walk and grove:
+And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould,
+          A sundial, lichen-old.
+
+Like some sad life bereft,
+          To musing left,
+The house stands: love and youth
+          Both gone, in sooth:
+But still it sits and dreams:
+          And round it seems
+Some memory of the past, still young and fair,
+          Haunting each crumbling stair.
+
+And suddenly one dimly sees,
+          Come through the trees,
+A woman, like a wild moss-rose:
+          A man, who goes
+Softly: and by the dial
+          They kiss a while:
+Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,
+          And they like ghosts are gone.
+
+
+THE THREE GHOSTS: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+The three ghosts on the lonely road,
+    Spake each to one another,
+"Whence came that stain upon your mouth
+    No lifted hand can cover?"
+"From eating of forbidden fruit,
+    Brother, my brother."
+
+The three ghosts on the sunless road,
+    Spake each to one another,
+"Whence came that red burn on your foot
+    No dust or ash may cover?"
+"I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out,
+    Brother, my brother."
+
+The three ghosts on the windless road,
+    Spake each to one another,
+"Whence came that blood upon thy hand
+    No other hand may cover?"
+"From breaking of a woman's heart,
+    Brother, my brother."
+
+"Yet on the earth, clean men we walked,
+    Glutton and thief and lover,
+White flesh and fair, it hid our stains,
+    That no man might discover,"
+Naked the soul goes up to God,
+    Brother, my brother.
+
+
+
+
+"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"
+
+
+AFTER DEATH: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
+
+The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
+    And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may
+    Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
+Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
+He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
+    And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
+    "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away
+Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
+He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
+  That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
+    Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
+    He did not love me living; but once dead
+  He pitied me; and very sweet it is
+To know he still is warm though I am cold.
+
+
+THE PASSER-BY: EDITH M. THOMAS
+
+Step lightly across the floor,
+And somewhat more tender be.
+
+    There were many that passed my door,
+    Many that sought after me.
+    I gave them the passing word--
+    Ah, why did I give thee more?
+    I gave thee what could not be heard,
+    What had not been given before;
+    The beat of my heart I gave....
+    And I give thee this flower on my grave.
+
+My face in the flower thou mayst see.
+Step lightly across the floor.
+
+
+AT HOME: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
+
+When I was dead, my spirit turned
+  To seek the much-frequented house.
+I passed the door, and saw my friends
+  Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;
+From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
+  They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
+They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
+  For each was loved of each.
+
+I listened to their honest chat.
+  Said one, "To-morrow we shall be
+Plod-plod along the featureless sands,
+  And coasting miles and miles of sea."
+Said one, "Before the turn of tide
+  We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
+Said one, "To-morrow shall be like
+  To-day, but much more sweet."
+
+"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
+  And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
+"To-morrow," cried they one and all,
+  While no one spoke of yesterday.
+Their life stood full at blessed noon;
+  I, only I had passed away:
+"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
+  I was of yesterday.
+
+I shivered comfortless, but cast
+  No chill across the tablecloth;
+I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
+  To stay and yet to part how loth:
+I passed from the familiar room,
+  I whom from love had passed away,
+Like the remembrance of a guest
+  That tarrieth but a day.
+
+
+THE RETURN: MINNA IRVING
+
+I pushed the tangled grass away
+    And lifted up the stone,
+And flitted down the churchyard path
+    With grasses overgrown.
+I halted at my mother's door
+    And shook the rusty catch--
+"The wind is rising fast," she said,
+    "It rattles at the latch."
+
+I crossed the street and paused again
+    Before my husband's house,
+My baby sat upon his knee
+    As quiet as a mouse.
+I pulled the muslin curtain by,
+    He rose the blinds to draw--
+"I feel a draught upon my back,
+    The night is cold and raw."
+
+I met a man who loved me well
+    In days ere I was wed,
+He did not hear, he did not see,
+    So silently I fled.
+But when I found my poor old dog,
+    Though blind and deaf was he,
+And feeble with his many years,
+    He turned and followed me.
+
+
+THE ROOM'S WIDTH: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
+
+I think if I should cross the room,
+            Far as fear,
+Should stand beside you like a thought--
+            Touch you, dear,
+
+Like a fancy--to your sad heart
+            It would seem
+That my vision passed and prayed you,
+            Or my dream.
+
+Then you would look with lonely eyes--
+            Lift your head--
+And you would stir and sigh, and say,
+            "She is dead."
+
+Baffled by death and love, I lean
+            Through the gloom.
+O Lord of life! Am I forbid
+            To cross the room?
+
+
+HAUNTED: DON MARQUIS
+
+A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?
+  Then why do you start and shiver so?
+That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
+  But it sounds like another noise we know!
+  The heavy drops drummed red and slow,
+The drops ran down as slow as fate--
+  Do ye hear them still?--it was long ago!--
+But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!
+
+Spirits there be that pass in peace;
+  Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;
+And the hour that your choking breath shall cease
+  I will get my grip on your naked soul--
+  Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole--
+I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:
+  To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!
+And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
+
+The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?
+  And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?
+Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day
+  When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?
+  Why did ye falter and look behind?
+At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?
+  Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!
+And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
+
+Drink and forget, make merry and boast,
+  But the boast rings false and the jest is thin--
+In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,
+  Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,
+  Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,
+Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
+  Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,
+But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
+
+
+
+
+"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"
+
+
+ONE OUT-OF-DOORS: SARAH PIATT
+
+A ghost--is he afraid to be a ghost?
+  A ghost? It breaks my heart to think of it.
+Something that wavers in the moon, at most;
+  Something that wanders: something that must flit
+From morning, from the bird's breath and the dew.
+Ah, if I knew,--ah, if I only knew!
+
+Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still!
+  O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush,
+Follow it with your kisses, if you will;
+  O beating heart, think of its helpless hush.
+Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear
+Something that was so near, that was so dear!
+
+No--no, he is no ghost; he could not be;
+  Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier;
+Something shut outside in the dark, while we
+  Laugh and forget by the familiar fire;
+Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears
+Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.
+
+
+SAILING BEYOND SEAS: JEAN INGELOW
+
+Methought the stars were blinking bright,
+  And the old brig's sail unfurl'd;
+I said, "I will sail to my love this night
+  At the other side of the world."
+I stepp'd abroad,--we sail'd so fast,--
+  The sun shot up from the bourn;
+But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
+  Did mourn and mourn and mourn.
+    O fair dove! O fond dove!
+      And dove with the white, white breast,
+    Let me alone, the dream is my own,
+      And my heart is full of rest.
+
+My true love fares on this great hill,
+  Feeding his sheep for aye;
+I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
+  My love was gone away.
+I went to gaze in the forest creek,
+  And the dove mourn'd on apace;
+No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
+  Rose up to show me his place.
+    O last love! O first love!
+      My love with the true, true heart,
+    To think I have come to this your home,
+      And yet--we are apart!
+
+My love! He stood at my right hand,
+  His eyes were grave and sweet.
+Methought he said, "In this far land,
+  O, is it thus we meet?
+Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
+  I have no place,--no part,--
+No dwelling more by sea or shore,
+  But only in thy heart."
+    O fair dove! O fond dove!
+      Till night rose over the bourn,
+    The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
+      Did mourn and mourn and mourn.
+
+
+BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER
+
+Four hundred times the glass had run
+  And seven times the moon had died
+Since my lover rode in his silver mail
+  Away from his new-made bride.
+
+A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond
+  And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea
+When out of the mist my own true love
+  Came up and stood by me.
+
+My heart leapt up that had been still,
+  My voice rang out that had been sad,
+Till my sister left her busy wheel
+  To see what made me glad.
+
+She saw my arms about his neck,
+  She saw my head upon his breast.
+Oh, why did my sister hate me so
+  That she would not let me rest?
+
+Loud then laughed my cruel sister,
+  False and fair of face was she,
+"O that is never your own true love,
+  For he lies dead in a far countrie!"
+
+I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms
+  And his shining face grew still and white;
+My tears ran down like bitter rain
+  As I watched him fade from sight.
+
+May the salt sea bury me in its waves,
+  May the mountains fall and cover my head,
+Since I had not faith in my only love
+  When he came back from the dead.
+
+
+THE TRUE LOVER: A.E. HOUSMAN
+
+The lad came to the door at night,
+    When lovers crown their vows,
+And whistled soft and out of sight
+    In shadow of the boughs.
+
+"I shall not vex you with my face
+    Henceforth, my love, for aye;
+So take me in your arms a space
+    Before the east is gray.
+
+"When I from hence away am past
+    I shall not find a bride,
+And you shall be the first and last
+    I ever lay beside."
+
+She heard and went and knew not why;
+    Her heart to his she laid;
+Light was the air beneath the sky
+    But dark under the shade.
+
+"Oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast
+    Seems not to rise and fall,
+And here upon my bosom prest
+    There beats no heart at all?"
+
+"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock,
+    You should have felt it then;
+But since for you I stopped the clock
+    It never goes again."
+
+"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops
+    Wet from your neck on mine?
+What is it falling on my lips,
+    My lad, that tastes like brine?"
+
+"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,
+    For when the knife has slit
+The throat across from ear to ear
+    'Twill bleed because of it."
+
+Under the stars the air was light
+    But dark below the boughs,
+The still air of the speechless night,
+    When lovers crown their vows.
+
+
+HAUNTED: G.B. STUART
+
+When candle-flames burn blue,
+Between the night and morning,
+I know that it is you,
+My love, that was so true,
+And that I killed with scorning.
+
+The watch-dogs howl and bay;
+I pale, and leave off smiling.
+Only the other day
+I held your heart in play
+Intent upon beguiling.
+
+A little while ago
+I wrung your soul with sighing,
+Or brought a sudden glow
+Into your cheek by low
+Soft answers, in replying.
+
+My life was all disguise,
+A mask of feints and fancies;
+I used to lift my eyes,
+And take you by surprise
+With smiles and upward glances.
+
+And now, where'er I go,
+Your sad ghost follows after;
+And blue the flame burns low,
+And doors creak to and fro,
+And silent grows the laughter.
+
+
+THE WHITE MOTH: SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH
+
+If a leaf rustled she would start:
+  And yet she died, a year ago.
+How had so frail a thing the heart
+  To journey where she trembled so?
+And do they turn and turn in fright,
+  Those little feet, in so much night?
+
+The light above the poet's head
+  Streamed on the page and on the cloth,
+And twice and thrice there buffeted
+  On the black pane a white-winged moth:
+'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside,
+  And, "Open, open, open!" cried.
+
+"I could not find the way to God;
+  There were too many flaming suns
+For signposts, and the fearful road
+  Led over wastes where millions
+Of flaming comets hissed and burned--
+  I was bewildered and I turned.
+
+"O, it was easy then! I knew
+Your window, and no star beside.
+Look up and take me back to you!"
+  He rose and thrust the window wide.
+'Twas but because his brain was hot
+  With rhyming; for he saw her not.
+
+But poets polishing a phrase
+Show anger over trivial things:
+And as she blundered in the blaze
+  Towards him, on ecstatic wings,
+He raised a hand and smote her dead;
+  Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"
+
+
+THE GHOST: WALTER DE LA MARE
+
+"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful,
+Beyond all dreams to restore,
+I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,
+And knock on the door."
+
+"Who speaks?" "I,--once was my speech
+Sweet as the bird's on the air.
+When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
+'Tis I speak thee fair."
+
+"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold."
+"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"
+"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain."
+"Long dead these to thine...."
+
+Silence. Still faint on the porch
+Brake the flames of the stars.
+In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
+Over keys, bolts and bars.
+
+A face peered. All the grey night
+In chaos of vacancy shone;
+Nought but vast Sorrow was there--
+The sweet cheat gone.
+
+
+LUKE HAVERGAL: EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
+
+Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,--
+There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,--
+And in the twilight wait for what will come.
+The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,--
+Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;
+But go, and if you trust her she will call.
+Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal--
+Luke Havergal.
+
+No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
+To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
+But there where western glooms are gathering,
+The dark will end the dark, if anything:
+God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
+And hell is more than half of paradise.
+No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies--
+In eastern skies.
+
+Out of the grave I come to tell you this,--
+Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss
+That flames upon your forehead with a glow
+That blinds you to the way that you must go.
+Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,--
+Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
+Out of the grave I come to tell you this,
+To tell you this.
+
+There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
+There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
+Go,--for the winds are tearing them away,--
+Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say,
+Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
+But go! and if you trust her she will call.
+There is the western gate, Luke Havergal--
+Luke Havergal.
+
+
+THE HIGHWAYMAN: ALFRED NOYES
+
+1
+
+The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
+The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
+The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
+And the highwayman came riding--
+                    Riding--riding--
+The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
+
+2
+
+He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace
+    at his chin,
+A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
+They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
+And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
+                    His pistol butts a-twinkle,
+His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
+
+3
+
+Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
+And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was
+    locked and barred;
+He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
+But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
+                    Bess, the landlord's daughter,
+Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
+
+4
+
+And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
+Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked;
+His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
+But he loved the landlord's daughter;
+                    The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
+Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--
+
+5
+
+"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
+But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
+Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
+Then look for me by moonlight,
+                    Watch for me by moonlight,
+I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
+
+
+6
+
+He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
+But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
+As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
+And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
+                    (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,)
+Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped
+    away to the West.
+
+
+PART TWO
+
+1
+
+He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
+And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
+When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
+A red-coat troop came marching--
+                    Marching--marching--
+King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
+
+2
+
+They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
+But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot
+    of her narrow bed;
+Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
+There was death at every window;
+                    And Hell at one dark window;
+For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that
+    _he_ would ride.
+
+3
+
+They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
+They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel
+    beneath her breast!
+"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
+                    She heard the dead man say--
+_Look for me by moonlight;_
+                    _Watch for me by moonlight;_
+_I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_
+
+4
+
+She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
+She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
+They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the
+    hours crawled by like years,
+Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
+                    Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
+The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
+
+5
+
+The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
+Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
+She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
+For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
+                    Blank and bare in the moonlight;
+And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to
+    her love's refrain.
+
+6
+
+_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
+    ringing clear--
+_Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_ in the distance? Were they deaf that
+    they did not hear?
+Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
+The highwayman came riding,
+                    Riding, riding!
+The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up
+    straight and still!
+
+7
+
+_Tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot_ in the echoing night!
+Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
+Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
+Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
+                    Her musket shattered the moonlight,
+Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
+
+8
+
+He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood
+Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
+Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear
+How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
+                    The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
+Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in
+    the darkness there.
+
+9
+
+Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
+With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier
+    brandished high!
+Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red
+    was his velvet coat;
+When they shot him down on the highway,
+                    Down like a dog on the highway,
+And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch
+    of lace at his throat.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_
+_When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_
+_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_
+_A highwayman comes riding--_
+                    _Riding--riding--_
+_A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._
+
+10
+
+_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;_
+_And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is
+    locked and barred;_
+_He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_
+_But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,_
+                    _Bess, the landlord's daughter,_
+_Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._
+
+
+THE BLUE CLOSET: WILLIAM MORRIS
+
+THE DAMOZELS
+
+Lady Alice, Lady Louise,
+Between the wash of the tumbling seas
+We are ready to sing, if so you please;
+So lay your long hands on the keys;
+        Sing "_Laudate pueri._"
+
+_And ever the great bell overhead_
+_Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,_
+_Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._
+
+LADY LOUISE
+
+Sister, let the measure swell
+Not too loud; for you sing not well
+If you drown the faint boom of the bell;
+        He is weary, so am I.
+
+_And ever the chevron overhead_
+_Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;_
+(_Was he asleep, or was he dead?_)
+
+LADY ALICE
+
+Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
+Two damozels wearing purple and green,
+Four lone ladies dwelling here
+From day to day and year to year;
+And there is none to let us go;
+To break the locks of the doors below,
+Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow;
+And when we die no man will know
+That we are dead; but they give us leave,
+Once every year on Christmas-eve,
+To sing in the Closet Blue one song:
+And we should be so long, so long,
+If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream,
+They float on in a happy stream;
+They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys,
+Float from the open'd lips of Louise:
+But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through
+The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;
+
+_And ever the great bell overhead_
+_Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,_
+_The wind plays on it a knell for the dead._
+
+(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)
+
+How long ago was it, how long ago,
+He came to this tower with hands full of snow?
+"Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said,
+And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
+
+He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,
+Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
+
+"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
+For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
+
+"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,
+But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
+
+"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry,
+I am so feeble now, would I might die."
+
+_And in truth the great bell overhead_
+_Left off pealing for the dead,_
+_Perchance because the wind was--dead._
+
+Will he come back again or is he dead?
+Or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
+
+Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
+With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
+
+Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here;
+Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
+
+Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
+Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
+
+_Through the floor shot up a lily red,_
+_With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,_
+_For he was strong in the land of the dead._
+
+What matter that his cheeks were pale,
+  His kind kiss'd lips all gray?
+"O love Louise, have you waited long?"
+  "O my Lord Arthur, yea."
+
+What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
+  Was stiff with frozen rime?
+His eyes were grown quite blue again.
+  As in the happy time.
+
+"O, love Louise, this is the key
+  Of the happy golden land!
+O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
+  My eyes are full of sand,
+What matter that I cannot see,
+  If ye take me by the hand?"
+
+_And ever the great bell overhead,_
+_And the tumbling sea mourned for the dead;_
+_For their song ceased, and they were dead._
+
+
+THE GHOST'S PETITION: CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI
+
+"There's a footstep coming; look out and see."--
+  "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
+No one cometh across the lea."--
+
+"There's a footstep coming; O sister, look."--
+  "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
+No one cometh across the brook."--
+
+"But he promised that he would come:
+  To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
+He must keep his word, and must come home.
+
+"For he promised that he would come;
+  His word was given; from earth to heaven,
+He must keep his word, and must come home.
+
+"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
+  You can slumber, who need not number
+Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.
+
+"I shall sit here awhile and watch;
+  Listening, hoping for one hand groping,
+In deep shadow, to find the latch."
+
+After the dark and before the light,
+  One lay sleeping, and one sat weeping,
+Who had watched and wept the weary night.
+
+After the night and before the day,
+  One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping--
+Watching, weeping for one away.
+
+There came a footstep climbing the stair,
+  Some one standing out on the landing
+Shook the door like a puff of air.--
+
+Shook the door and in he passed.
+  Did he enter? In the room center
+Stood her husband; the door shut fast.
+
+"O Robin, but you are cold--
+  Chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you
+Look like a stray lamb from our fold.
+
+"O Robin, but you are late:
+  Come and sit near me--sit here and cheer me."--
+(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)
+
+"Lay not down your head on my breast:
+  I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
+In the shelter that you love best.
+
+"Feel not after my clasping hand:
+  I am but a shadow, come from the meadow,
+Where many lie, but no tree can stand.
+
+"We are trees that have shed their leaves:
+  Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
+Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
+
+"I could rest if you would not moan
+  Hour after hour; I have no power
+To shut my ears as I lie alone.
+
+"I could rest if you would not cry,
+  But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping--
+Watching, weeping so bitterly."--
+
+"Woe's me! Woe's me! For this I have heard.
+  Oh night of sorrow--oh, black to-morrow!
+Is it thus that you keep your word?
+
+"Oh, you who used so to shelter me,
+  Warm from the least wind--why, now the east wind
+Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
+
+"Oh, my husband of flesh and blood,
+  For whom my mother I left, and brother,
+And all I had, accounting it good,
+
+"What do you do there, under the ground,
+  In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.
+What do you do there? What have you found?"--
+
+"What I do there I must not tell,
+  But I have plenty--kind wife, content ye:
+It is well with us: it is well.
+
+"Tender hand hath made our nest;
+  Our fear is ended; our hope is blended
+With present pleasure, and we have rest."
+
+"Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,
+  If your present days are so pleasant,
+For my days are so wearisome.
+
+"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:
+Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
+  Any more with the pains I take?"
+
+
+HE AND SHE: SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
+
+"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;
+Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"
+
+They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;
+On her forehead of stone they laid it fair.
+
+Over her eyes that gazed too much
+They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
+
+With a tender touch they closed up well
+The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
+
+Above her brows and beautiful face
+They tied her veil and her marriage lace,
+
+And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes
+Which were the whitest no eye could choose,--
+
+And over her bosom they crossed her hands.
+"Come away," they said, "God understands."
+
+And there was silence, and nothing there
+But silence and scents of eglantere,
+
+And jasmine, and roses and rosemary,
+And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she."
+
+And they held their breath till they left the room,
+With a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom.
+
+But he who loved her too well to dread
+The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,
+
+He lit his lamp, and he took the key
+And turned it--alone again, he and she.
+
+He and she; but she would not speak,
+Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
+
+He and she; yet she would not smile,
+Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.
+
+He and she; still she did not move
+To any passionate whisper of love.
+
+Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath,
+Is there no voice or language of death,
+
+"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
+But to heart and soul distinct, intense?
+
+"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear:
+What is the secret of dying, dear?
+
+"Was it the infinite wonder of all
+That you ever could let life's flower fall?
+
+"Or was it a greater marvel to feel
+The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
+
+"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
+Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
+
+"Did life roll back its record, dear,
+And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
+
+"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
+To find out so, what a wisdom love is?
+
+"O perfect dead! O dead most dear!
+I hold the breath of my soul to hear.
+
+"I listen as deep as to terrible hell,
+As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
+
+"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
+To make you so placid, from head to feet!
+
+"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
+And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--
+
+"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
+His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,--
+
+"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
+Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
+
+"The very strangest and suddenest thing
+Of all the surprises that dying must bring."
+
+Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead!
+Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
+
+Who will believe that he heard her say,
+With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,
+
+"The utmost wonder is this--I hear
+And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
+
+"And am your angel, who was your bride.
+And know, that though dead, I have never died."
+
+
+
+
+SHAPES OF DOOM
+
+
+THE DEAD COACH: KATHERINE TYNAN
+
+At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
+I heard the dead coach passing by,
+Heard it passing wild and fleet,
+And knew my time had come not yet.
+
+Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
+Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
+On and away through the wild night,
+The dead must rest ere morning light.
+
+If one might follow on its track,
+The coach and horses midnight black,
+Within should sit a shape of doom
+That beckons one and all to come.
+
+God pity them to-night who wait
+To hear the dead coach at their gate,
+And him who hears, though sense be dim,
+The mournful dead coach stop for him.
+
+He shall go down with a still face,
+And mount the steps and take his place,
+The door be shut, the order said,
+How fast the pace is with the dead!
+
+Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
+The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
+Now, God, the Father of us all,
+Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!
+
+
+DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON
+
+'Tis They, of a veritie--
+  They are calling thin an' shrill;
+We maun rise an' put to sea,
+  We maun gi'e the deid their will,
+We maun ferry them owre the faem,
+  For they draw us as they list;
+We maun bear the deid folk hame
+  Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
+
+"But how can I gang the nicht,
+  When I'm new come hame frae sea?
+When my heart is sair for the sicht
+  O' my lass that langs for me?"
+"O your lassie lies asleep,
+  An' sae do your bairnes twa;
+The cliff-path's stey and steep,
+  An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."
+
+O sae hooly steppit we,
+  For the nicht was mirk an' lown,
+Wi' never a sign to see,
+  But the voices all aroun'.
+We laid to the saut sea-shore,
+  An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide,
+As she micht hae dipped wi' a score,
+  An' our ain three sel's beside.
+
+O the boat she settled low,
+  Till her gunwale kissed the faem,
+An' she didna loup nor row
+  As she bare the deid folk hame;
+But she aye gaed swift an' licht,
+  An' we naething saw nor wist,
+Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht
+  Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
+
+There was never a sign to see,
+  But a misty shore an' low;
+Never a word spak' we,
+  But the boat she lichtened slow,
+An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair,
+  An' a cauld hand touched my wrist,
+An' my heart sank cauld and sair
+  I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
+
+Then the wind raise up wi' a maen,
+  ('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet).
+Like a deid saul wud wi' pain,
+  Like a bairnie wild wi' freit;
+But the boat rade swift an' licht,
+  Sae we wan the land fu' sune,
+An' the shore showed wan an' white
+  By a glint o' the waning mune.
+
+We steppit oot owre the sand
+  Where an unco' tide had been,
+An' Black Donald caught my hand
+  An' coverit up his een:
+For there, in the wind an' weet,
+  Or ever I saw nor wist,
+My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet,
+  In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
+
+An' it's O for my bonny Jean!
+  An' it's O for my bairnies twa,
+It's O an' O for the watchet een
+  An' the steps that are gane awa'--
+Awa' to the Silent Place,
+  Or ever I saw nor wist,
+Though I wot we twa went face to face
+  Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.
+
+
+KEITH OF RAVELSTON: SYDNEY DOBELL
+
+The murmur of the mourning ghost
+  That keeps the shadowy kine,
+"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
+  The sorrows of thy line!"
+
+Ravelston, Ravelston,
+  The stile beneath the tree,
+The maid that kept her mother's kine,
+  The song that sang she!
+
+She sang her song, she kept her kine,
+  She sat beneath the thorn
+When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
+  Rode through the Monday morn;
+
+His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
+  His belted jewels shine!
+Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
+  The sorrows of thy line!
+
+Year after year, where Andrew came,
+  Comes evening down the glade,
+And still there sits a moonshine ghost
+  Where sat the sunshine maid.
+
+Her misty hair is faint and fair,
+  She keeps the shadowy kine;
+Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
+  The sorrows of thy line!
+
+I lay my hands upon the stile,
+  The stile is lone and cold.
+The burnie that goes babbling by
+  Says naught that can be told.
+
+Yet, stranger! here from year to year,
+  She keeps her shadowy kine;
+Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
+  The sorrows of thy line!
+
+Step out three steps where Andrew stood,--
+  Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
+The ancient stile is not alone,
+  'Tis not the burn I hear!
+
+She makes her immemorial moan,
+  She keeps her shadowy kine,
+Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
+  The sorrows of thy line!
+
+
+THE FETCH: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
+
+"What makes you so late at the tryst,
+  What caused you so long to be?
+I have waited a weary time
+  For the hour you promised me."
+
+"Oh, glad were I here by your side,
+  Full many an hour ago,
+But for what there passed on the road
+  All so mournfully and so slow."
+
+"And what have you met on the road
+  That kept you so long and so late?"
+"O full many an hour has gone
+  Since I left my father's gate.
+
+"As I hastened on in the gloom,
+  By the road to you tonight,
+I passed the corpse of a young maid
+  All clad in a shroud of white."
+
+"And was she some friend once cherished,
+  Or was she a sister dead,
+That you left your own true lover
+  Till the trysting hour had sped?"
+
+"I could not see who it might be,
+  Her face was hidden away,
+But I had to turn and follow
+  Wherever her resting lay."
+
+"And did it go up by the town,
+  Or went it down by the lake?
+I know there are but two church yards
+  Where a corpse its rest may take."
+
+"They did not go by the town,
+  Nor by the lake stayed their feet,
+But buried the corpse all silently
+  Where the four cross roads meet."
+
+"And was it so strange a sight
+  That you should go like a child
+Thus to leave me to wait, forgotten,
+  By a passing sight beguiled?"
+
+"Oh, I heard them whisper my name,
+  Each mourner that passed by me;
+And I had to follow their path,
+  Though their faces I could not see."
+
+"And right well I would like to know
+  Who this fair young maid might be,
+So take my hand, my own true love,
+  And hasten along with me."
+
+He did not go down by the lake
+  He did not go by the town,
+But carried her to the four cross roads,
+  And there he did set her down.
+
+"Now I see no track of a foot,
+  I see no mark of a spade,
+And I know well in this white road
+  There never a grave was made."
+
+He took her hand in his right hand,
+  And he led her to town away,
+And there he questioned the old priest,
+  Did he bury a maid that day.
+
+He took her hand in his right hand,
+  Down to the church by the lake,
+And there he questioned a young priest,
+  If a maiden her life did take.
+
+But there was no tale of death
+  In all the parish round,
+And neither had heard of a maid
+  Thus put in unholy ground.
+
+He loosed her hand from his hand,
+  And turned on his heel away.
+"I know you are false," he said,
+  "From the lie you told today."
+
+And she said, "Oh, what evil things
+  Did tonight my senses take?"
+She knelt down by the water side
+  And wept as her heart would break.
+
+And she said, "Oh, what fairy sight
+  Was it thus my grief to see!
+I'll sleep well 'neath the still water,
+  Since my love has turned on me."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And her love he went to the north,
+  And far to the south went he,
+But still he heard her distant voice
+  Call, weeping so bitterly.
+
+He could not rest in the daytime,
+  He could not sleep in the night,
+Hastened back to the old road,
+  With the trysting-place in sight.
+
+What first he heard was his love's name,
+  And keening both loud and long;
+What first he saw was his love's face
+  At the head of a mourning throng.
+
+And white she was as the dead are,
+  And never a move made she,
+But passed him by on her black pall,
+  Still sleeping so peacefully.
+
+And cold she was as the dead are,
+  And never a word she spake,
+When they said, "Unholy is her grave,
+  Since she her life did take."
+
+Silent she was, as the dead are,
+  And never a cry she made
+When there came, more sad than the keening,
+  The ring of a digging spade.
+
+No rest they gave in the town church,
+  No grave by the lake so sweet,
+But buried her in unholy ground,
+  Where the four cross roads do meet.
+
+
+
+THE BANSHEE: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
+
+God be between us and all harm,
+    For I to-night have seen
+A banshee in the shadow pass
+    Along the dark boreen.
+
+And as she went she keened and cried,
+    And combed her long white hair,
+She stopped at Molly Reilly's door,
+    And sobbed till midnight there.
+
+And is it for himself she moans,
+    Who is so far away?
+Or is it Molly Reilly's death
+    She cries until the day?
+
+Now Molly thinks her man has gone
+    A sailor lad to be;
+She puts a candle at her door
+    Each night for him to see.
+
+But he is off to Galway town,
+    (And who dare tell her this?)
+Enchanted by a woman's eyes,
+    Half-maddened by her kiss.
+
+So as we go by Molly's door
+    We look towards the sea,
+And say, "May God bring home your lad
+    Wherever he may be."
+
+I pray it may be Molly's self
+    The banshee keens and cries,
+For who dare breathe the tale to her,
+    Be it her man who dies?
+
+But there is sorrow on the way,
+    For I tonight have seen
+A banshee in the shadow pass
+    Along the dark boreen.
+
+
+THE SEVEN WHISTLERS: ALICE E. GILLINGTON
+
+Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and
+    clear,
+The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of
+    Porthmeor;
+It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden
+    grace,
+It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped
+    loud in the Race:
+The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining
+    whisht and low,
+And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray
+    sea-lavenders grow,
+      And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;
+      And the gore-sprent sundews thrive
+      With oozy hands alive.
+Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,
+How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?
+
+Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,
+Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands
+Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall
+Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?
+The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath
+Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the
+    ground-sea rattles of Death;
+      "I rise in the shallows," 'a saith,
+      "Where the mermaid's kettle sings,
+      And the black shag flaps his wings!"
+Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,
+When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan
+    of Porthmeor!
+
+Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,
+And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore;
+And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,
+When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;
+The fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "Heva!" in the town,
+And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;
+      And ye hoist the mainsail brown,
+      As over the deep-sea roll
+      The lurker follows the shoal;
+To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,
+When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!
+
+And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,
+The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!
+It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,--
+It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs
+    yelped in the Race:
+The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling
+    whisht and low,
+And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves
+    blow,
+      And the moor-grass sways to and fro,
+      Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,
+      And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.
+Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness
+    wild and drear,--
+How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?
+
+
+THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON
+
+_The live man victorious_
+    _Rode spurring from the fight;_
+_In a glad voice and glorious_
+    _He sang of his delight,_
+_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
+    _Came after in the night._
+
+And one laid hand on his bridle-rein--
+    Swift as the steed he sped--
+"O, ride you fast, yet at the last,
+    Hate faster rides," he said.
+"My sons shall know their father's foe
+    One day when blades are red."
+
+And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar
+    Like touch o' driven mist,
+"For joy you slew ere joy I knew,
+    For one girl's mouth unkissed,
+At your board's head, at mass, at bed,
+    My pale ghost shall persist."
+
+And one laid hands on his own two hands,
+    "O Brother o' mine," quoth he,
+"What can I give to you who live
+    Like gift you gave to me?
+Since from grief and strife and ache o' life
+    Your sword-stroke set me free."
+
+_The live man victorious_
+    _Rode spurring from the fight;_
+_In a glad voice and glorious_
+    _He sang of his delight,_
+_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
+    _Came after in the night._
+
+
+MAWGAN OF MELHUACH: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
+
+'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died:
+Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide:
+The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore,
+They had heard strange voices amid the roar.
+
+"Out with the boat there," someone cried,--
+"Will he never come? We shall lose the tide:
+His berth is trim and his cabin stored,
+He's a weary long time coming aboard."
+
+The old man struggled upon the bed:
+He knew the words that the voices said;
+Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim,
+"He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."
+
+Hark yet again to the devilish roar!
+"He was nimbler once with a ship on shore;
+Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay,
+We must make the offing by break of day."
+
+Hard was the struggle, but at the last
+With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed,
+And away, away, beneath their sight,
+Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.
+
+
+THE MOTHER'S GHOST: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
+
+Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
+        _I myself was young._
+There he has wooed him so winsome a maid;
+        _Fair words gladden so many a heart._
+
+Together were they for seven years,
+And together children six were theirs;
+
+Then came Death abroad through the land,
+And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.
+
+Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,
+And again hath he wooed him another maid.
+
+He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,
+But she was bitter and full of pride.
+
+When she came driving into the yard,
+There stood the six children weeping so hard.
+
+There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;
+From before her feet she thrust them apart.
+
+She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
+"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.
+
+She took from them their quilts of blue,
+And said, "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."
+
+She took from them the great wax light,
+"Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."
+
+In the evning late they cried with cold,
+The mother heard it under the mould.
+
+The woman heard it in the earth below:
+"To my little children I must go."
+
+She standeth before the Lord of all:
+"And may I go to my children small?"
+
+She prayed Him so long and would not cease,
+Until He bade her depart in peace.
+
+"At cock-crow thou shalt return again;
+Longer thou shalt not there remain!"
+
+She girded up her sorrowful bones,
+And rifted the walls and the marble stones.
+
+As through the village she flitted by,
+The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.
+
+When she came to the castle gate,
+There stood her eldest daughter in wait.
+
+"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?
+How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"
+
+"Never art thou mother of mine,
+For my mother was both fair and fine.
+
+"My mother was white, with cheeks of red,
+But thou art pale and like to the dead."
+
+"How should I be fair and fine?
+I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.
+
+"How should I be white and red,
+So long, so long have I been dead?"
+
+When she came in at the chamber door,
+There stood the small children weeping sore.
+
+One she braided and one she brushed,
+The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.
+
+The fifth she took on her lap and pressed,
+As if she would suckle it at her breast.
+
+Then to her eldest daughter said she,
+"Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."
+
+Into the chamber when he came
+She spake to him in anger and shame.
+
+"I left behind me both ale and bread;
+My children hunger and are not fed.
+
+"I left behind me the quilts of blue;
+My children lie on the straw ye strew.
+
+"I left behind me the great wax light;
+My children lie in the dark at night.
+
+"If I come again into your hall,
+As cruel a fate shall you befall!
+
+"Now crows the cock with feathers red,
+Back to the earth must all the dead.
+
+"Now crows the cock with feathers swart;
+The gates of heaven fly wide apart.
+
+"Now crows the cock with feathers white;
+I can abide no longer to-night."
+
+Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail,
+They gave the children bread and ale.
+
+Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay,
+They feared lest the dead were on their way.
+
+Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark,
+        _I myself was young._
+They feared the dead out there in the dark.
+        _Fair words gladden so many a heart._
+
+
+THE DEAD MOTHER: ROBERT BUCHANAN
+
+1
+
+As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep,
+Under the grass as I lay so deep,
+As I lay asleep in my cotton serk
+Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk,
+I waken'd up in the dead of night,
+I waken'd up in my death-serk white,
+And I heard a cry from far away,
+And I knew the voice of my daughter May:
+"Mother, Mother, come hither to me!
+Mother, Mother, come hither and see!
+Mother, Mother, Mother dear,
+Another Mother is sitting here:
+My body is bruised and in pain I cry,
+On straw in the dark afraid I lie,
+I thirst and hunger for drink and meat,
+And Mother, Mother, to sleep were sweet!"
+I heard the cry, though my grave was deep,
+And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.
+
+2
+
+I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,
+Up I rose from my grave so deep!
+The earth was black, but overhead
+The stars were yellow, the moon was red;
+And I walk'd along all white and thin,
+And lifted the latch and enter'd in,
+And reached the chamber as dark as night,
+And though it was dark, my face was white:
+"Mother, Mother, I look on thee!
+Mother, Mother, you frighten me!
+For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!"
+But I smiled and kissed her fears away,
+I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song,
+And on my knee I rocked her long:
+"O Mother, Mother, sing low to me--
+I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!"
+I kissed her, but I could not weep,
+And she went to sleep, and she went to sleep.
+
+3
+
+As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep,
+My May and I, in our grave so deep,
+As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk,
+Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk,
+I waken'd up in the dead of night,
+Though May my daughter lay warm and white,
+For I heard the cry of a little one,
+And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son:
+"Mother, Mother, come hither to me;
+Mother, Mother, come hither and see!
+Mother, Mother, Mother dear,
+Another Mother is sitting here:
+My body is bruised and my heart is sad,
+But I speak my mind and call them bad;
+I thirst and hunger night and day,
+And were I strong I would fly away!"
+I heard the cry, though my grave was deep,
+And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep!
+
+4
+
+I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,
+Up I rose from my grave so deep,
+The earth was black, but overhead
+The stars were yellow, the moon was red;
+And I walk'd along all white and thin,
+And lifted the latch and enter'd in.
+"Mother, Mother, and art thou here?
+I know your face and I feel no fear;
+Raise me, Mother, and kiss my cheek,
+For oh I am weary and sore and weak."
+I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy,
+And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy:
+I raised and held him on my breast,
+Sang him a song, and bade him rest.
+"Mother, Mother, sing low to me--
+I am sleepy now and I cannot see!"
+I kissed him and I could not weep,
+As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.
+
+5
+
+As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep,
+With my girl and boy in my grave so deep,
+As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear,
+Awoke, but awoke not my children dear,
+And I heard a cry so low and weak
+From a tiny voice that could not speak;
+I heard the cry of a little one,
+My bairn that could neither talk nor run,
+My little, little one, uncaress'd,
+Starving for lack of the milk of the breast;
+And I rose from sleep and enter'd in,
+And found my little one, pinch'd and thin,
+And croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan,
+And put its lips to my white breast-bone;
+And the red, red moon that lit the place
+Went white to look at the little face,
+And I kiss'd and kiss'd and I could not weep,
+As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.
+
+6
+
+As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep,
+I set it down in the darkness deep,
+Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out,
+And drew the curtains round about;
+Then into the dark, dark room I hied
+Where he lay awake at the woman's side,
+And though the chamber was black as night,
+He saw my face, for it was so white;
+I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain,
+And I knew he would never sleep again,
+And back to my grave went silently,
+And soon my baby was brought to me;
+My son and daughter beside me rest,
+My little baby is on my breast;
+Our bed is warm and our grave is deep,
+But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep!
+
+
+
+
+LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD
+
+
+THE FOLK OF THE AIR: WM. BUTLER YEATS
+
+O'Driscoll drove with a song,
+  The wild duck and the drake
+From the tall and the tufted weeds
+  Of the drear Heart Lake.
+
+And he saw how the weeds grew dark
+  At the coming of night tide,
+And he dreamed of the long dark hair
+  Of Bridget his bride.
+
+He heard while he sang and dreamed
+  A piper passing away,
+And never was piping so sad,
+  And never was piping so gay.
+
+And he saw young men and young girls
+  Who danced on a level place,
+And Bridget his bride among them,
+  With a sad and a gay face.
+
+The dancers crowded about him,
+  And many a sweet thing said,
+And a young man brought him red wine,
+  And a young girl white bread.
+
+But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
+  Away from the merry bands,
+To old men playing at cards
+  With a twinkling of ancient hands.
+
+The bread and the wine had a doom,
+  For these were the folk of the air;
+He sat and played in a dream
+  Of her long dim hair.
+
+He played with the merry old men,
+  And thought not of evil chance,
+Until one bore Bridget his bride
+  Away from the merry dance.
+
+He bore her away in his arms,
+  The handsomest young man there,
+And his neck and his breast and his arms
+  Were drowned in her long dim hair.
+
+O'Driscoll got up from the grass
+  And scattered the cards with a cry;
+But the old men and the dancers were gone
+  As a cloud faded into the sky.
+
+He knew now the folk of the air,
+  And his heart was blackened by dread,
+And he ran to the door of his house;
+  Old women were keening the dead.
+
+And he heard high up in the air
+  A piper piping away;
+And never was piping so sad
+ And never was piping so gay.
+
+
+THE RECONCILIATION: A. MARGARET RAMSAY
+
+"The snow has ceased, the wind has hushed,
+  The moon shines fair and clear,
+The night is drawing on apace,
+  Yet Evan is not here.
+
+"The deer is couched among the fern,
+  The bird sleeps on the tree;
+O what can keep my only son,
+  He bides so long from me?"
+
+"O mother, come and take your rest,
+  Since Evan stays so late;
+If we leave the door unbarred for him,
+  What need to sit and wait?"
+
+"Now hold your peace, my daughter,
+  Be still and let me be,
+I will not seek my bed this night
+  Until my son I see."
+
+And she has left the door unbarred,
+  And by the fire sat still;
+She drew her mantle her about
+  As the winter night grew chill.
+
+The moon had set beyond the moor,
+  And half the night had gone,
+When standing silent by her side
+  She saw Evan her son.
+
+"I did not hear your step, Evan,
+  Nor hear you lift the pin."
+"I would not wake my sister, mother,
+  So softly I came in."
+
+"Now sit ye down and rest, Evan,
+  And I will give you meat."
+"I have been with my cousin John, mother,
+  And he gave me to eat."
+
+"Then have ye laid the quarrel by
+  That was 'twixt him and you,
+And given each other pledge of faith
+  Ye will be friends anew?"
+
+"We have laid the quarrel by, mother,
+  Forevermore to sleep,
+And he has given me his knife,
+  As pledge of faith to keep."
+
+"O is it blood or is it rust
+  That makes the knife so red,
+Or is it but the red firelight
+  That's shining on the blade?"
+
+"No rust is on the blade, mother,
+  Nor the firelight's ruddy hue;
+The bright blood ran upon the knife
+  To seal our compact true."
+
+"O is it with the pale gray gleam
+  That comes before the dawn,
+Or are ye weary with the road
+  That ye look so ghastly wan?"
+
+"A long and weary road, mother,
+  I fared to reach my home,
+And I must get me to my bed
+  That waits for me to come."
+
+"The night is bitter cold, Evan,
+  See that your bed be warm,
+And take your plaid to cover you,
+  Lest the cold should do you harm."
+
+"Yes, cold, cold is the night, mother,
+  Yet soundly do I rest,
+With the bleak North wind to cover me,
+  And the snow white on my breast."
+
+
+THE PRIEST'S BROTHER: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
+
+Thrice in the night the priest arose
+From broken sleep to kneel and pray.
+"Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows,
+And I a Mass for your soul may say."
+
+Thrice he went to the chamber cold
+Where, stiff and still uncoffined
+His brother lay, his beads he told,
+And "Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said.
+
+Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep
+Before the morning bell should toll;
+But still he heard--and woke to weep--
+The crying of his brother's soul.
+
+All through the dark, till dawn was pale,
+The priest tossed in his misery,
+With muffled ears to hide the wail
+The voice of that ghost's agony.
+
+At last the red cock flaps his wings,
+To trumpet of a day new born.
+The lark, awaking, soaring, sings
+Into the bosom of the morn.
+
+The priest before the altar stands
+He hears the spirit call for peace;
+He beats his breast with shaking hands.
+"Oh, Father, grant this soul's release.
+
+Most Just and Merciful, set free
+From Purgatory's awful night
+This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee
+And rest forever in Thy sight."
+
+The Mass is over--still the clerk
+Kneels pallid in the morning glow.
+He said, "From evils of the dark
+Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.
+
+"Benediction, that I may rest,
+For all night did the banshee weep."
+The priest raised up his hands and blest--
+"Go now, my child, and you will sleep."
+
+The priest went down the vestry stair,
+He laid his vestments in their place,
+And turned--a pale ghost met him there
+With beads of pain upon his face.
+
+"Brother," he said, "you have gained me peace,
+But why so long did you know my tears,
+And say no Mass for my soul's release
+To save the torture of those years?"
+
+"God rest you, brother," the good priest said,
+"No years have passed--but a single night."
+He showed the body uncoffined
+And the six wax candles still alight.
+
+The living flowers on the dead man's breast
+Blew out a perfume sweet and strong.
+The spirit paused ere he passed to rest--
+"God save your soul from a night so long."
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT: ROBERT BUCHANAN
+
+'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
+  Lay in the Field of Blood;
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Beside the body stood.
+
+Black was the earth by night,
+  And black was the sky:
+Black, black were the broken clouds,
+  Though the red Moon went by.
+
+'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
+  Strangled and dead lay there;
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Looked on in its despair.
+
+The breath of the World came and went
+  Like a sick man's in rest;
+Drop by drop on the World's eyes
+  The dews fell cool and blest.
+
+Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Did make a gentle moan--
+"I will bury underneath the ground
+  My flesh and blood and bone.
+
+"I will bury it deep beneath the soil,
+  Lest mortals look thereon,
+And when the wolf and raven come
+  My body will be gone!
+
+"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
+  And hard and cold, God wot;
+And I must bear my body hence
+  Until I find a spot!"
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  So grim, and gaunt and grey,
+Raised the body of Judas Iscariot
+  And carried it away.
+
+And as he bare it from the field
+Its touch was cold as ice,
+And the ivory teeth within the jaw
+  Rattled aloud, like dice.
+
+As the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Carried its load with pain,
+The Eye of Heaven, like a lantern's eye,
+  Opened and shut again.
+
+Half he walked, and half he seemed
+  Lifted on the cold wind;
+He did not turn, for chilly hands
+  Were pushing from behind.
+
+The first place that he came unto
+  It was the open wold,
+And underneath were prickly whins,
+  And a wind that blew so cold.
+
+The next place that he came unto
+  It was a stagnant pool,
+And when he threw the body in
+  It floated, light as wool.
+
+He drew the body on his back
+  And it was dripping chill,
+And the next place that he came unto
+  Was a Cross upon a hill.
+
+A Cross upon the windy hill,
+  And a Cross on either side,
+Three skeletons that swung thereon,
+  Who had been crucified.
+
+And on the middle cross-bar sat
+  A white Dove slumbering;
+Dim it sat in the dim light,
+  With its head beneath its wing.
+
+And underneath the middle Cross
+  A grave yawned wide and vast,
+But the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Shivered and glided past.
+
+The fourth place that he came unto
+  It was the Brig of Dread,
+And the great torrents rushing down
+  Were deep and swift and red.
+
+He dared not fling the body in
+  For fear of faces dim,
+And arms were waved in the wild water
+  To thrust it back to him.
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Turned from the Brig of Dread,
+And the dreadful foam of the wild water
+  Had splashed the body red.
+
+For days and nights he wandered on,
+  Upon an open plain,
+And the days went by like blinding mist,
+  And the nights like rushing rain.
+
+For days and nights he wandered on
+  All through the Wood of Woe;
+And the nights went by like the moaning wind
+  And the days like drifting snow.
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+   Came with a weary face--
+Alone, alone, and all alone,
+  Alone in a lonely place!
+
+He wandered east and he wandered west,
+  And heard no human sound;
+For months and years in grief and tears,
+  He wandered round and round.
+
+For months and years, in grief and tears,
+  He walked the silent night,
+Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Perceived a far-off light.
+
+A far-off light across the waste,
+  As dim as dim might be,
+That came and went like a lighthouse gleam,
+  On a black night at sea.
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
+  Crawled to the distant gleam,
+And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
+  Against him with a scream.
+
+For days and nights he wandered on,
+  Pushed on by hands unseen,
+And the days went by like black, black rain,
+  And the nights like rushing rain.
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
+  Strange and sad and tall,
+Stood all alone at the dead of night,
+  Before a lighted hall.
+
+And all the wold was white with snow,
+  And his foot-marks black and damp,
+And the ghost of the silver Moon arose,
+  Holding her yellow lamp.
+
+And the icicles were on the eaves,
+   And the walls were deep with white,
+And the shadows of the guests within
+  Passed on the window-light.
+
+And the shadows of the wedding guests
+  Did strangely come and go,
+And the body of Judas Iscariot
+  Lay stretched along the snow.
+
+The body of Judas Iscariot
+  Lay stretched along the snow,
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Ran swiftly to and fro.
+
+To and fro, and up and down,
+  He ran so swiftly there,
+As round and round the frozen Pole
+  Glideth the lean white bear.
+
+'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
+  And the lights burned bright and clear--
+"Oh, who is there?" the Bridegroom said,
+  "Whose weary feet I hear?"
+
+'Twas one looked up from the lighted hall,
+  And answered soft and low,
+"It is a wolf runs up and down,
+  With a black track in the snow."
+
+The Bridegroom in his robe of white,
+  Sat at the table-head--
+"Oh, who is that who moans without?"
+  The blessed Bridegroom said.
+
+'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
+  And answered fierce and low,
+"'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Gliding to and fro."
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Did hush itself and stand,
+And saw the Bridegroom at the door
+  With a light in his hand.
+
+The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
+  And he was clad in white,
+And far within the Lord's Supper
+  Was spread so long and bright.
+
+The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked
+  And his face was bright to see--
+"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper
+  With thy body's sins?" said he.
+
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Stood black, and sad, and bare--
+"I have wandered many nights and days;
+  There is no light elsewhere."
+
+'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
+  And their eyes were fierce and bright--
+"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Away into the night!"
+
+The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
+  And he waved hands still and slow,
+And the third time that he waved his hands
+  The air was full of snow.
+
+And of every flake of falling snow,
+  Before it touched the ground,
+There came a dove, and a thousand doves
+  Made sweet sound.
+
+'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
+  Floated away full fleet,
+And the wings of the doves that bare it off
+  Were like its winding sheet.
+
+'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
+  And beckoned, smiling sweet;
+'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
+  Stole in and fell at his feet.
+
+"The Holy Supper is spread within,
+  And the many candles shine,
+And I have waited long for thee
+  Before I poured the wine!"
+
+The supper wine is poured at last,
+  And the lights burn bright and fair,
+Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet,
+  And dries them with his hair.
+
+
+THE EVE OF ST. JOHN: WALTER SCOTT
+
+The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with the day,
+    He spurr'd his courser on,
+Without stop or stay down the rocky way,
+    That leads to Brotherstone.
+
+He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
+    His banner broad to rear;
+He went not 'gainst the English yew,
+    To lift the Scottish spear.
+
+Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,
+    And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore:
+At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe,
+    Full ten pound weight and more.
+
+The Baron return'd in three days' space,
+    And his looks were sad and sour,
+And weary was his courser's pace,
+    As he reach'd his rocky tower.
+
+He came not from where Ancram Moor
+    Ran red with English blood;
+Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch,
+    'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.
+
+Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,
+    His acton pierced and tore,
+His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,--
+    But it was not English gore.
+
+He lighted at the Chapellage,
+    He held him close and still;
+And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page;
+    His name was English Will.
+
+"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,
+    Come hither to my knee;
+Though thou art young and tender of age,
+    I think thou art true to me.
+
+"Come tell me all that thou hast seen,
+    And look thou tell me true!
+Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
+    What did my ladye do?"--
+
+"My lady each night, sought the lonely light,
+    That burns on the wild Watchfold;
+For from height to height, the beacons bright
+    Of the English foemen told.
+
+"The bittern clamor'd from the moss,
+    The wind blew loud and shrill;
+Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
+    To the eiry Beacon Hill.
+
+"I watch'd her steps, and silent came
+    Where she sat her on a stone;--
+No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
+    It burned all alone.
+
+"The second night I kept her in sight,
+    Till to the fire she came,
+And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight
+    Stood by the lonely flame.
+
+"And many a word that warlike lord
+    Did speak to my lady there;
+But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,
+    And I heard not what they were.
+
+"The third night there, the night was fair,
+    And the mountain-blast was still,
+As again I watch'd the secret pair,
+    On the lonesome Beacon Hill.
+
+"And I heard her name the midnight hour,
+    And name this holy eve;
+And say 'Come this night to thy lady's bower,
+    Ask no bold Baron's leave.
+
+"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
+    His lady is all alone;
+The door she'll undo, to her knight so true
+    On the eve of the good St. John.'--
+
+"'I cannot come, I must not come:
+    I dare not come to thee;
+On the eve of St. John I must wander alone,
+    In thy bower I may not be.'--
+
+"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
+    Thou shouldst not say me nay;
+For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
+    Is worth the whole summer's day.
+
+"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,
+    And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair:
+So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John,
+    I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'
+
+"'Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot,
+    And the warder his bugle should not blow,
+Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east,
+    And my foot-step he would know.'--
+
+"'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east,
+    For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en,
+And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
+    For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'
+
+"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd;
+    Then he laugh'd right scornfully--
+'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,
+    May as well say mass for me!
+
+"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,
+    In thy chamber will I be'--
+With that he was gone and my lady left alone,
+    And no more did I see."
+
+Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,
+    From the dark to the blood-red high;
+"Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,
+    For, by Mary, he shall die!"--
+
+"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light,
+    His plume, it was scarlet and blue,
+On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,
+    And his crest was a branch of the yew."
+
+"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,
+    Loud dost thou lie to me!
+For that knight is cold and laid in the mould,
+    All under the Eildon-tree."--
+
+"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!
+    For I heard her name his name;
+And that lady bright she called the knight
+    Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"
+
+The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,
+    From the high blood-red to pale--
+"The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark--
+    So I may not trust thy tale.
+
+"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,
+    And Eildon slopes to the plain.
+Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,
+    That gay gallant was slain.
+
+"The varying light deceived thy sight,
+    And the wild winds drown'd the name;
+For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,
+    For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"
+
+He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate,
+    And he mounted the narrow stair,
+To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait,
+    He found his lady fair.
+
+That lady sat in mournful mood;
+    Look'd o'er hill and vale;
+Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,
+    And all down Teviotdale.
+
+"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"--
+    "Now hail, thou Baron, true!
+What news, what news from Ancram fight?
+    What news from the bold Buccleuch?"
+
+"The Ancram moor is red with gore,
+    For many a Southron fell;
+And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,
+    To watch our beacons well."--
+
+The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said:
+    Nor added the Baron a word,
+Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,
+    And so did her moody lord.
+
+In sleep the lady mourn'd and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,
+    And oft to himself he said:--
+"The worms round him creep, and his bloody grave is deep.
+    It cannot give up the dead!"
+
+It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
+    The night was well-nigh done,
+When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
+    On the eve of good St. John.
+
+The lady look'd through the chamber fair,
+    By the light of the dying flame;
+And she was aware of a knight stood there--
+    Sir Richard of Coldinghame!
+
+"Alas! away! away!" she cried,
+    "For the holy Virgin's sake!"--
+"Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side,
+    But, lady, he will not wake.
+
+"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three,
+    In bloody grave have I lain;
+The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,
+    But, lady, they are said in vain.
+
+"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,
+    Most foully slain I fell;
+And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,
+    For a space is doom'd to dwell.
+
+"At our trysting place, for a certain space,
+    I must wander to and fro,
+But I had not had power to come to thy bower,
+    Hadst thou not conjured me so."
+
+Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd;
+    "How, Richard, hast thou sped?
+And art thou saved or art thou lost?"--
+    The vision shook his head!
+
+"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;
+    So bid thy lord believe:
+That lawless love is guilt above,
+    This awful sign receive."
+
+He laid his left hand on an oaken beam,
+    His right upon her hand,
+The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,
+    For it scorched like a fiery brand.
+
+The sable score, of fingers four,
+    Remains on that board impress'd,
+And forever more that lady wore
+    A covering on her wrist.
+
+There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
+    Ne'er looks upon the sun,
+There is a monk in Melrose tower,
+    He speaketh word to none.
+
+That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
+    That monk that speaks to none,--
+That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
+    That monk the bold Baron.
+
+FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES
+
+"I am no love for you, Margaret,
+    You are no love for me.
+Before to-morrow at eight of the clock,
+    A rich wedding you shall see."
+
+Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window
+    Combing her yellow hair;
+There she espied sweet William and his bride,
+    As they were a-riding near.
+
+Down she laid her ivory comb,
+    And up she bound her hair;
+She went away out of her bower,
+    And never returned there.
+
+When day was gone and night was come,
+    And all men fast asleep,
+There came the spirit of fair Marg'ret,
+    And stood at William's feet.
+
+"Are you awake, sweet William?" she said,
+    "Or, William, are you asleep?
+God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
+    And me of my winding sheet."
+
+When day was come and night was gone,
+    And all men waked in from sleep,
+Sweet William to his ladye said,--
+    "Alas I have cause to weep.
+
+"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,--
+    Such dreams are never good,--
+I dreamt my bower was full of red swine,
+    And the walls ran down with blood."
+
+He called up his merrymen all,
+    By one, by two, and by three;
+Saying, "I'll away to fair Margaret's bower,
+    By the leave of my ladye."
+
+And when he came to fair Margaret's bower,
+    He knocked at the ring;
+And who so ready as her seven brethren,
+    To let sweet William in.
+
+He turned down the covering-sheet,
+    To see the face of the dead;
+"Methinks she looks all pale and wan;
+    She hath lost her cherry red.
+
+"I would do more for thee, Margaret,
+    Than would any of thy kin.
+And I will kiss thy pale cold lips,
+    Though a smile I cannot win."
+
+With that bespake the seven brethren,
+    Making most piteous moan,
+"You may go and kiss your jolly brown bride,
+    And let our sister alone!"
+
+"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
+    I do but what is right;
+I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
+    By day, nor yet by night."
+
+"Deal on, deal on, ye merrymen all,
+    Deal on your cake and wine.
+Whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
+    Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine!"
+
+Fair Margaret died as it might be to-day,
+    Sweet William he died the morrow,
+Fair Margaret died for pure true love,
+    Sweet William he died for sorrow.
+
+Margaret was buried in the lower chancel,
+    And William in the higher;
+And out of her breast there sprang a rose tree,
+    And out of his a brier.
+
+They grew till they grew unto the church-top,
+    And when they could grow no higher;
+And there they tied a true lover's knot,
+    Which made all the people admire.
+
+At last the clerk of the parish came,
+    As the truth doth well appear,
+And by misfortune he cut them down,
+    Or else they had now been here.
+
+SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST
+
+There came a ghost to Marjorie's door,
+  Wi' many a grievous moan,
+And aye he tirled at the pin,
+  But answer made she none.
+
+"Oh, say, is that my father?
+  Or is't my brother John?
+Or is it my true love Willy,
+  From Scotland new come home?"
+
+"'Tis not thy father, Marjorie,
+  Nor not thy brother John;
+But 'tis thy true love Willy
+  From Scotland new come home.
+
+"Oh Marjorie sweet! oh Marjorie dear!
+  For faith and charitie,
+Will ye gie me back my faith and troth
+  That I gave once to thee?"
+
+"Thy faith and troth thou gavest to me,
+  And again thou'lt never win,
+Until thou come within my bower
+  And kiss me cheek and chin."
+
+"My lips they are sae bitter," he says,
+  "My breath it is sae strang,
+If ye get ae kiss from me to-night,
+  Your days will not be lang.
+
+"The cocks are crawing, Marjorie,--
+  The cocks are crawing again:
+The dead wi' the quick they mustna stay,
+  And I must needs be gone."
+
+She followed him high, she followed him low,
+  Till she came to yon church-yard green,
+And there the deep grave opened up,
+  And young William he lay down.
+
+"What three things are these, sweet William,
+  That stand beside your head?"
+"O it's three maidens, Marjorie,
+  That once I promised to wed."
+
+"What three things are these, sweet William,
+  That stand close at your side?"
+"O it's three babes," he says, "Marjorie,
+  That these three maidens had."
+
+"What three things are these, sweet William,
+  That lie close at thy feet?"
+"O it's three hell-hounds, Marjorie,
+  That's waiting my soul to keep."
+
+And she took up her white, white hand,
+  And struck him on the breast;
+Saying, "Have here again thy faith and troth,
+  And I wish your soul good rest."
+
+CLERK SAUNDERS
+
+Clerk Saunders and may Margaret
+    Walked ower yon garden green;
+And deep and heavy was the love
+    That fell thir twa between.
+
+"A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said,
+    "A bed for you and me!"
+"Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret,
+    "Till anes we married be!"
+
+"Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard
+    And slowly lift the pin;
+And you may swear, and save your aith,
+    Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.
+
+"Take your napkin in your hand,
+    Tie up your bonnie een,
+And you may swear and save your aith,
+    Ye saw me na since yestreen."
+
+It was about the midnight hour,
+    When they asleep were laid,
+When in and came her seven brothers,
+    Wi' torches burning red:
+
+When in and came her seven brothers,
+    Wi' torches burning bright:
+They said, "We hae but one sister,
+    And behold her lying with a knight!"
+
+Then out and spake the first o' them,
+    "We will awa' and let them be."
+And out and spake the second o' them,
+    "His father has nae mair but he."
+
+And out and spake the third o' them,
+    "I wot that they are lovers dear."
+And out and spake the fourth o' them,
+    "They hae been in love this mony a year."
+
+Then out and spake the fifth o' them,
+    "It were great sin true love to twain,"
+And out and spake the sixth o' them,
+    "It were shame to slay a sleeping man."
+
+Then up and gat the seventh o' them,
+    And never a word spake he;
+But he has striped his bright brown brand
+    Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.
+
+Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned,
+    Into his arms as asleep she lay;
+And sad and silent was the night
+    That was atween thir twae.
+
+And they lay still and sleepit sound
+    Until the day began to daw;
+And kindly she to him did say,
+    "It is time, true love, you were awa'."
+
+But he lay still and sleepit sound,
+    Albeit the sun began to sheen;
+She looked between her and the wa',
+    And dull and drowsie were his een.
+
+Then in and came her father dear;
+    Said, "Let a' your mourning be;
+I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
+    And I'll come back and comfort thee."
+
+"Comfort weel your seven sons,
+    For comforted I will never be:
+I trow 'twas neither knave nor loon
+    Was in the bower last night wi' me."
+
+The clinking bell gaed through the town,
+    And carried the dead corpse to the clay.
+Young Saunders stood at may Margaret's window,
+    I wot, an hour before the day.
+
+"Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says,
+    "Or are you waking presentlie?
+Give me my faith and troth again,
+    True love, as I gied them to thee."
+
+"Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
+    Nor our true love sall never twin,
+Until ye come within my bower,
+    And kiss me cheek and chin."
+
+"My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
+    It has the smell now of the ground;
+And if I may kiss thy comely mouth,
+    Thy days will soon be at an end.
+
+"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
+    I wot the wild fowls are boding day.
+Give me my faith and troth again,
+    And let me fare me on my way."
+
+"Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
+    And our true love sall never twin,
+Until ye tell wha' comes o' women,
+    Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?"
+
+"Their beds are made in the heavens high,
+    Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,
+Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;
+    I wot, sweet company for to see.
+
+"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
+    I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
+The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
+    And I, ere now, will be missed away."
+
+Then she has taken a crissom wand,
+    And she has stroken her troth thereon;
+She has given it him out at the shot-window,
+    Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.
+
+"I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret;
+    Ever I thank ye heartilie;
+But gin I were living, as I am dead,
+    I'd keep my faith and troth with thee."
+
+It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
+    She climbed the wall, and followed him,
+Until she came to the green forest,
+    And there she lost the sight o' him.
+
+"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
+    Is there ony room at your feet?
+Is there ony room at your side, Saunders?
+    Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?"
+
+"There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret,
+    There's nae room at my feet;
+My bed it is fu' lowly now,
+    Amang the hungry worms I sleep.
+
+"Cauld mould is my covering now,
+    But and my winding-sheet;
+The dew it fall nae sooner down
+    Then my resting place is weet."
+
+Then up and crew the red, red cock,
+    Then up and crew the gray;
+"'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret,
+    That you were going away.
+
+"And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret,
+    And Marg'ret, o' veritie,
+Gin e'er ye love another man,
+    Ne'er love him as ye did me."
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them o'er the sea.
+
+They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+When word cam' to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+When word cam' to the carline wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+"I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fish be in the flood,
+Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood!"
+
+It fell about the Martinmas,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+The carline wife's three sons cam' hame,
+    And their hats were o' the birk.
+
+If neither grew in shye nor ditch
+    Nor yet in any small shugh;
+But at the gates o' Paradise
+    That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+"Blow up the fire, my maidens!
+    Bring water from the well!
+For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide;
+And she's ta'en her mantle round about,
+    Sat down at the bedside.
+
+Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+The eldest to the youngest said,
+    "'Tis time we were away.
+
+"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin' worm doth chide;
+Gin we be miss'd out o' our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide."
+
+"Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
+    Lie still but if we may;
+Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
+    She'll go mad ere it be the day.
+
+"Our mother has nae mair but us;
+    See where she leans asleep;
+The mantle that was on herself,
+    She has happ'd it round our feet."
+
+O it's they have ta'en up their mother's mantle,
+    And they've hung it on a pin;
+"O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle,
+    Ere ye hap us again!
+
+"Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE
+
+This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+When thou from hence away art passed,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+Sit thee down and put them on;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+The whins sall prick thee to the bare bane;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+To Purgatory Fire thou com'st at last;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+The fire sall never make thee shrink;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+If meat or drink thou never gav'st nane,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
+    --_Every nighte and alle,_
+Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,
+    _And Christe receive thy saule._
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+INDEX
+
+
+
+
+After Death, 141
+All-Saints' Eve, 3
+All-Souls, 3
+All-Souls' Night, 9
+All-Souls' Night, 16
+Allen, Elizabeth Akers, 128
+Allingham, William, 4
+Arnold, Sir Edwin, 169
+At Home, 143
+
+Bacon, Josephine Daskam, 25
+Ballad of Douglas Bridge, 43
+Ballad of Hallowe'en, 7
+Ballad of Judas Iscariot, The, 205
+Ballad of the Buried Sword, 39
+Banshee, The, 183
+Barham, Richard Harris, 80, 87
+Beleaguered City, The, 122
+Betrayal, 151
+Blockhouse on the Hill, The, 49
+Blue Closet, The, 163
+Branch, Anna Hempstead, 29
+Buchanan, Robert, 192, 205
+Byron, May, 74
+
+Cape Horn Gospel, 79
+Carlin, Francis, 42, 43
+Cawein, Madison, 135
+Chesson, Nora Hopper, xiv
+Child, The, 28
+Child Alone, The, 27
+Clerk Saunders, 224
+Cone, Helen Gray, 49
+Cortissoz, Ellen M.H., 14
+
+Dave Lilly, 112
+Dead Coach, The, 175
+Dead Mother, 192
+Deid Folks' Ferry, 176
+De la Mare, Walter, 49, 119, 131, 155
+Dobell, Sydney, 178
+Drake's Drum, 41
+Dream, A, 4
+Driscoll, Louise, 132
+
+Easter, Marguerite Elizabeth, 33
+Eaton, Arthur Wentworth Hamilton, 63
+Eve of St. John, The, 212
+
+Far-Away Country, The, xiv
+Fair Margaret's Misfortunes, 220
+Featherstone's Doom, 73
+Fetch, The, 179
+Fireflies, 132
+Flying Dutchman, The, 61
+Flying Dutchman of Tappan Zee, 68
+Fog Wraiths, 76
+Folk of the Air, The, 199
+Forgotten Soul, The, 8
+Freneau, Philip, 44
+
+Garrison, Theodosia, 6, 7, 24, 28, 137, 187
+Ghost, The, 107
+Ghost, The, 155
+Ghosts, 135
+Ghosts of the Argonne, 56
+Ghost's Petition, The, 166
+Gillington, Alice E., 185
+Grey Ghost, The, 42
+Guiterman, Arthur, 68, 111
+
+Hallows' E'en, 13
+Harte, Bret, 124
+Haunted, 130
+Haunted, 134
+Haunted, 144
+Haunted, 153
+Haunted Houses, 120
+Hawker, Robert Stephen, 73, 188
+He and She, 169
+Highwayman, The, 157
+Hood, Thomas, 84, 103, 107, 109
+Housman, A.E., 152
+Howells, Mildred, 76
+Humphreys, Louisa, 16
+
+Indian Burying Ground, The, 44
+Ingelow, Jean, 149
+Ingoldsby Penance, 87
+Irving, Minna, 143
+
+Janet's Tryst, 10
+
+Keith of Ravelston, 178
+Kendall, May, 126
+Kilmer, Aline, 151
+Kilmer, Joyce, 70, 112, 114
+Kingsley, Charles, 65
+Kipling, Rudyard, 40
+
+Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The, 66
+Legend, A, 126
+Legend of Hamilton Tighe, 80
+Leland, Charles Godfrey, 61
+Letts, Winifred M., 13
+Listeners, 119
+Little Dead Child, The, 25
+Little Ghost, The, 22
+Little Ghost, The, 133
+Little Green Orchard, The, 131
+Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 61, 120, 122, 189
+Looking-glass, The, 40
+Lowell, Amy, 130
+Luke Havergal, 156
+Lyke-Wake Dirge, A, 231
+
+Macdonald, George, 10
+Marquis, Don, 144
+Martin, 114
+Mary Shepherdess, 21
+Mary's Ghost, 109
+Masefield, John, 79
+Mawgan of Melhuach, 188
+Midnight Visitor, A, 128
+Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 133
+Mitchell, Ruth Comfort, 57
+Moore, Thomas, 66
+Morris, William, 163
+Mother's Ghost, The, 189
+My Laddie's Hounds, 33
+
+Neighbors, The, 6
+Newbolt, Henry, 41
+Newport Romance, A, 124
+Night at Gettysburg, 51
+November Eleventh, 57
+Noyes, Alfred, 157
+
+Old House, The, 35
+On Kingston Bridge, 14
+One Out-of-doors, 149
+Open Door, The, 32
+
+Passer-by, 141
+Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs, The, 63
+Phantom Ship, The, 61
+Piatt, Sarah, 149
+Pickthall, Marjorie L.C., 21
+Pompey's Ghost, 103
+Priest's Brother, The, 203
+
+Quiller-Couch, Arthur T., 154
+
+Ramsay, A. Margaret, 201
+Reconciliation, The, 201
+Reese, Lizette Woodworth, 3
+Return, The, 143
+Rhys, Ernest, 39
+Rice, Grantland, 56
+Riders, The, 52
+Robinson, Edwin Arlington, 156
+Room's Width, 144
+Rossetti, Christina, 141, 142, 166
+
+Sailing Beyond Seas, 149
+Sands of Dee, The, 65
+Schauffler, Robert Haven, 53
+Scott, Sir Walter, 212
+Sea Ghosts, 74
+Seitz, Don C., 51
+Seven Whistlers, 185
+Shorter, Dora Sigerson, 9, 179, 183, 203
+Song of Soldiers, The, 49
+Stuart, G.B., 153
+Such Are the Souls in Purgatory, 29
+Superstitious Ghost, The, 111
+Supper Superstition, 84
+Sweet William's Ghost, 222
+
+Thomas, Edith M., 141
+Three Ghosts, The, 137
+True Lover, The, 152
+Two Brothers, 24
+Tynan, Katherine, 3, 22, 35, 52, 175
+
+Untermeyer, Louis, 134
+
+Victor, The, 187
+
+Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 144
+Watson, Rosamund Marriott, 27, 32, 176
+White Comrade, The, 53
+White Ships and the Red, 70
+White Moth, The, 154
+Widdemer, Margaret, 8
+Wife of Usher's Well, The, 229
+
+Yeats, William Butler, 199
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+Page 88: changed Sine to Since.
+Page 192: changed Thy to They.
+The unusual spacing in "The Ingoldsby Penance" has been preserved from the
+original.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Haunted Hour, by Various
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