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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17229-8.txt b/17229-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2375af7 --- /dev/null +++ b/17229-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7708 @@ +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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 barréd 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 blesséd 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 drownéd 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 arméd 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 mailéd 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 _sćcula sćculorum_!-- + 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 meâ culpâ_!) + +"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 crępe 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 alarméd 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 uncoffinéd +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 uncoffinéd +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 Arméd 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 returnéd 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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED HOUR *** + +***** This file should be named 17229-8.txt or 17229-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/2/2/17229/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Stacy Brown Thellend, and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>THE HAUNTED HOUR</h1> + +<h2><i>An Anthology</i></h2> + + +<h4 class="padtop">COMPILED BY</h4> +<h2>MARGARET WIDDEMER</h2> + +<h3 class="padtop">NEW YORK<br /> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE<br /> +1920</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> +<h5>COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY<br /> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.</h5> + +<h5 class="padtop">THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY<br /> +RAHWAY, N. J.</h5> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>COPYRIGHT NOTICE</h2> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>To George H. Doran Co. for the poems of Joyce Kilmer and May Byron.</p> + +<p>To Doubleday, Page & Co. and Rudyard Kipling for Mr. Kipling's "The +Looking-Glass."</p> + +<p>To E. P. Dutton & Co. for Helen Gray Cone's "Blockhouse on the Hill," +from her <i>A Chant of Love for England</i>.</p> + +<p>To Harper & Bros. for the poems of Arthur Guiterman, Don Marquis, and +Don C. Seitz.</p> + +<p>To Henry Holt and Co. for the poems of Francis Carlin, Walter De La +Mare, Louis Untermeyer, and Margaret Widdemer.</p> + +<p>To Houghton Mifflin Co. for Anna Hempstead Branch's "Such Are the Souls +in Purgatory" from <i>Heart of the Road</i>, the poems of Henry W. +Longfellow, Nathan Haskell Dole's "Russian Fantasy," Amy Lowell's +"Haunted" from <i>Pictures of the Floating World</i>, May Kendall's "A +Legend."</p> + +<p>To Mitchell Kennerley for the poems of Theodosia Garrison, Dora Sigerson +Shorter, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>To the Macmillan Co. for W. B. Yeats' "Folk o' the Air," and John +Masefield's "Cape Horn Gospel."</p> + +<p>To Thomas Bird Mosher for Edith M. Thomas's "The Passer-By" from <i>Flower +from the Ashes</i>.</p> + +<p>To Frederick A. Stokes Co. for "The Highwayman," by Alfred Noyes.</p> + +<p>To Charles Scribner's Sons for Josephine Daskam Bacon's "Little Dead +Child."</p> + +<p>To Rose de Vaux Royer for Madison Cawein's "Ghosts."</p> + +<p>To the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i> for Grantland Rice's "Ghosts of the +Argonne."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Margaret Widdemer.</span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table class="center" summary="toc"> +<tbody> +<tr> +<td class="left">The Far Away Country</td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Nora Hopper Chesson</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_xiv">xiv</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#THE_NICHT_ATWEEN_THE_SANCTS">"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">All-Souls </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Katherine Tynan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">All-Saints' Eve </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Lizette Woodworth Reese</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Dream </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>William Allingham</i></td> <td class="right bottom" style="width: 20%;"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Neighbors </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Ballad of Hallowe'en </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Forgotten Soul </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Margaret Widdemer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">All-Souls' Night </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Dora Sigerson Shorter</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Janet's Tryst </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>George Macdonald</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Hallows' E'en </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Winifred M. Letts</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">On Kingston Bridge </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Ellen M. H. Cortissoz</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">All-Souls' Night </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Louisa Humphreys</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#ALL_THE_LITTLE_SIGHING_SOULS">"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">Mary Shepherdess </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Marjorie L. C. Pickthall</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Little Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Katherine Tynan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Two Brothers </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Little Dead Child </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Josephine Daskam Bacon</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Child Alone </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Rosamund Marriott Watson</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Child </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Such Are the Souls in Purgatory </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anna Hempstead Branch</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Open Door </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Rosamund Marriott Watson</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">My Laddie's Hounds </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Marguerite Elizabeth Easter</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Old House </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Katherine Tynan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#SHADOWY_HEROES">SHADOWY HEROES</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">Ballad of the Buried Sword</td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Ernest Rhys</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Looking-Glass </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Rudyard Kipling</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Drake's Drum </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Henry Newbolt</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Grey Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Francis Carlin</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Ballad of Douglas Bridge </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Francis Carlin</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Indian Burying Ground </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Philip Freneau</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#RANK_ON_RANK_OF_GHOSTLY_SOLDIERS">"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Song of Soldiers </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Walter De La Mare</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">By the Blockhouse on the Hill </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Helen Gray Cone</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Night at Gettysburg </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Don C. Seitz</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Riders </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Katherine Tynan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The White Comrade </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Robert Haven Schauffler</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Ghosts of the Argonne </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Grantland Rice</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">November Eleventh </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Ruth Comfort Mitchell</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#SEA_GHOSTS">SEA GHOSTS</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Flying Dutchman </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Charles Godfrey Leland</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Phantom Ship </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Sands of Dee </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Charles Kingsley</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Lake of the Dismal Swamp </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Thomas Moore</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Zee </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Arthur Guiterman</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The White Ships and the Red </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Joyce Kilmer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Featherstone's Doom </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Robert Stephen Hawker</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Sea-Ghosts </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>May Byron</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Fog Wraiths </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Mildred Howells</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#CHEERFUL_SPIRITS">CHEERFUL SPIRITS</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">Cape Horn Gospel </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>John Masefield</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Legend of Hamilton Tighe </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Richard Harris Barham</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Supper Superstition </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Thomas Hood</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Ingoldsby Penance </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Richard Harris Barham</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Pompey's Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Thomas Hood</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Thomas Hood</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Mary's Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Thomas Hood</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Superstitious Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Arthur Guiterman</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Dave Lilly </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Joyce Kilmer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Martin </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Joyce Kilmer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#HAUNTED_PLACES">HAUNTED PLACES</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Listeners </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Walter De La Mare</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Haunted Houses </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Beleaguered City </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Newport Romance </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Bret Harte</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Legend </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>May Kendall</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Midnight Visitor </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Elizabeth Akers Allen</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Haunted </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Amy Lowell</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Little Green Orchard </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Walter De La Mare</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Fireflies </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Louise Driscoll</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Little Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Edna St. Vincent Millay</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Haunted </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Louis Untermeyer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Ghosts </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Madison Cawein</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Three Ghosts </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#YOU_KNOW_THE_OLD_WHILE">"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">After Death </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Christina Rossetti</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Passer-By </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Edith M. Thomas</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">At Home </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Christina Rossetti</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Return </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Minna Irving</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Room's Width </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Haunted </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Don Marquis</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#MY_LOVE_THAT_WAS_SO_TRUE">"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">One Out-of-Doors </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Sarah Piatt</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Sailing Beyond Seas </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Jean Ingelow</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Betrayal </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Aline Kilmer</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The True Lover </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>A. E. Housman</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Haunted </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>G. B. Stuart</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The White Moth </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Walter De La Mare</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Luke Havergal </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Edwin Arlington Robinson</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Highwayman </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Alfred Noyes</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Blue Closet </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>William Morris</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Ghost's Petition </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Christina Georgina Rossetti</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">He and She </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Sir Edwin Arnold</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#SHAPES_OF_DOOM">SHAPES OF DOOMSHAPES OF DOOM</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Dead Coach </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Katherine Tynan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Deid Folks' Ferry </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Rosamund Marriott Watson</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Keith of Ravelston </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Sydney Dobell</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Fetch </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Dora Sigerson Shorter</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Banshee </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Dora Sigerson Shorter</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Seven Whistlers </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Alice E. Gillington</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Victor </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Theodosia Garrison</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Mawgan of Melhuach </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Robert Stephen Hawker</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Mother's Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Dead Mother </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Robert Buchanan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3" class="tocgap"><a href="#LEGENDS_AND_BALLADS_OF_THE_DEAD">LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Folk of the Air </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>William Butler Yeats</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Reconciliation </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>A. Margaret Ramsay</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Priest's Brother </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Dora Sigerson Shorter</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Ballad of Judas Iscariot </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Robert Buchanan</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Eve of St. John </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Walter Scott</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_212">212</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Fair Margaret's Misfortunes </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anon.</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Sweet William's Ghost </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anon.</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">Clerk Saunders </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anon.</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">The Wife of Usher's Well </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anon.</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="left">A Lyke-Wake Dirge </td> <td class="left bottom"><i>Anon.</i></td> <td class="right bottom"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr> +</tbody> +</table> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii"></a></span></p> +<h1>THE HAUNTED HOUR</h1> + + +<p class="padtop"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">xiv</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_FAR_AWAY_COUNTRY" id="THE_FAR_AWAY_COUNTRY"></a>THE FAR AWAY COUNTRY</h2> + +<h3>NORA HOPPER CHESSON</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country where I desire to go,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country where the blue roses grow,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country and very far away,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country, and the seas are wild</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That you must voyage over, grown man or chrisom child,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>O'er leagues of land and water a weary way you'll go</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Before you'll find the country where the blue roses grow.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>But O, and O, the roses are very strange and fair,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>You'd travel far to see them, and one might die to wear,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Yet, far away's the country, and perilous the sea,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And some may think far fairer the red rose on her tree.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Far away's the country—O would that I were there!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>It's on and on past Whinny Muir and over Brig o' Dread.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And you shall pluck blue roses the day that you are dead.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">1</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_NICHT_ATWEEN_THE_SANCTS" id="THE_NICHT_ATWEEN_THE_SANCTS"></a>"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">3</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ALL-SOULS:</span> <span class="author">KATHERINE TYNAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The door of Heaven is on the latch</span><br /> +<span class="i2">To-night, and many a one is fain</span><br /> +<span class="i0">To go home for one night's watch</span><br /> +<span class="i2">With his love again.</span><br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, where the father and mother sit</span><br /> +<span class="i2">There's a drift of dead leaves at the door</span><br /> +<span class="i0">Like pitter-patter of little feet</span><br /> +<span class="i2">That come no more.</span><br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Their thoughts are in the night and cold,</span><br /> +<span class="i2">Their tears are heavier than the clay,</span><br /> +<span class="i0">But who is this at the threshold</span><br /> +<span class="i2">So young and gay?</span><br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They are come from the land o' the young,</span><br /> +<span class="i2">They have forgotten how to weep;</span><br /> +<span class="i0">Words of comfort on the tongue,</span><br /> +<span class="i2">And a kiss to keep.</span><br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They sit down and they stay awhile,</span><br /> +<span class="i2">Kisses and comfort none shall lack;</span><br /> +<span class="i0">At morn they steal forth with a smile</span><br /> +<span class="i2">And a long look back.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ALL-SAINTS' EVE:</span> <span class="author">LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, when the ghosts go by,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Under the empty trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here in my house I sit and cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My head upon my knees!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">4</a></span> +<span class="i0">Innumerable, white,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like mist they fill the square;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shutter barréd there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There walks one small and glad,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">New to the churchyard clod;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My little lad, my little lad,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A single year with God!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I sit and hide my head<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until they all are past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the empty trees the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That go full soft and fast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up to my chamber dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Back to my bed I plod;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, would I were a ghost with him,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And faring back to God!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">A DREAM:</span> <span class="author">WILLIAM ALLINGHAM</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I went to the window to see the sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the dead that ever I knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Going one by one and two by two.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On they pass'd and on they pass'd;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Townsfellows all, from first to last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Born in the moonlight of the lane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span> +<span class="i0">Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At soldiers once—but now more staid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those were the strangest sight to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who were drown'd, I knew, in the open sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some but a day in their churchyard bed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some that I had not known were dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A long long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet of them all there was one, one only,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raised a head or looked my way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She linger'd a moment—she might not stay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How long since I saw that fair pale face!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! Mother dear! might I only place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On, on, a moving bridge they made<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young and old, women and men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many long-forgot, but remember'd then,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And first there came a bitter laughter;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sound of tears a moment after,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then a music so lofty and gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That every morning, day by day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I strive to recall it if I may.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">6</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE NEIGHBORS:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>At first cock-crow</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>The ghosts must go</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Back to their quiet graves below.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Against the distant striking of the clock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the crowing cock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I arose and threw the window wide;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Long, long before the setting of the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And yet I knew they must be passing soon—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My neighbors who had died—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back to their narrow green-roofed homes that wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the churchyard gate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I leaned far out and waited—all the world<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was like a thing impearled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mysterious and beautiful and still:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The crooked road seemed one the moon might lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Our little village slept in Quaker gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And gray and tall the poplars on the hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then far off I heard the cock—and then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My neighbors passed again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slow drifting by my door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or gardened lilies swaying in the wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Then suddenly each separate face I knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The tender lovers drifting two and two,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Old, peaceful folk long since passed out of mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And little children—one whose hand held still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An earth-grown daffodil.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">7</a></span> +<span class="i0">And here I saw one pausing for a space<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lift a wistful face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Up to a certain window where there dreamed<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A little brood left motherless; and there<br /></span> +<span class="i3">One turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And others lingering passed—but one there seemed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So over glad to haste, she scarce could wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To reach the churchyard gate!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The farrier's little maid who loved too well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And died—I may not tell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How glad she seemed. My neighbors, young and old,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">With backward glances lingered as they went;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Only upon one face was all content,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sorrow comforted—a peace untold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watched them through the swinging gate—the dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stayed till the last had gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">A BALLAD OF HALLOWE'EN:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>All night the wild wind on the heath</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Whistled its song of vague alarms;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>All night in some mad dance of death</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>The poplars tossed their naked arms.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mignon Isa hath left her bed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And bared her shoulders to the blast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long procession of the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stared at her as it passed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, there, methinks, my mother smiled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there my father walks forlorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there the little nameless child<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That was the parish scorn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">8</a></span> +<span class="i0">"And there my olden comrades move,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there my sister smiles apart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But nowhere is the fair, false love<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That bent and broke my heart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, false in life, oh, false in death,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wherever thy mad spirit be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could it not come this night," she saith,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"And keep tryst with me?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mignon Isa has turned alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bitter the pain and long the years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moonlight on the old gravestone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was warmer than her tears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>All night the wild wind on the heath</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Whistled its song of vague alarms;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>All night in some mad dance of death</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>The poplars tossed their naked arms.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE FORGOTTEN SOUL:</span> <span class="author">MARGARET WIDDEMER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas I that cried against the pane on All Souls' Night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(O pulse of my heart's life, how could you never hear?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You filled the room I knew with yellow candlelight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas I that went beside you in the gray wood-mist<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(O core of my heart's heart, how could you never know?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lass hard by you, handfast, as I used to go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">9</a></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(O fire of my heart's grief, how could you never see?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You smiled in careless dreaming as you crossed my grave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And hummed a little love-song where they buried me!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ALL-SOULS' NIGHT:</span> <span class="author">DORA SIGERSON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's doors would let out the dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">10</a></span> +<span class="i0">Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">JANET'S TRYST:</span> <span class="author">GEORGE MACDONALD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sweep up the flure, Janet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Put on anither peat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's a lown and starry nicht, Janet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And neither cold nor weet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And it's open hoose we keep the nicht<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For ony that may be oot;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's the nicht atween the Sancts an' Souls<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whan the bodiless gang aboot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Set the chairs back to the wall, Janet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mak' ready for quaiet fowk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hae a' thing as clean as a windin'-sheet—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They comena ilka ook.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there's a rowan berry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweep them into the fire, Janet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They'll be welcomer than merry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Syne set open the door, Janet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wide open for wha kens wha:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As ye come to your bed, Janet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Set it open to the wa'."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span> +<span class="i0">She set the chairs back to the wa',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But ane made of the birk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She swept the flure, but left ane spale,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A long spale o' the aik.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The nicht was lown, and the stars sat still<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A-glintin' doon the sky:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sauls crept oot o' their mooly graves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A' dank wi' lyin' by.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When midnight came the mither rase—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She wad gae see an' hear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back she cam' wi' a glowrin' face,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' sloomin' wi' verra fear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Janet, gae na to see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye left a chair afore the fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Janet she smiled in her mither's face:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She had brunt the roddin reid:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she left aneath the birken chair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spale frae a coffin lid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She rase and she gaed but the hoose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Aye steekin' door and door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Three hours gaed by ere her mother heard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her fit upo' the flure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But whan the grey cock crew she heard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The soun' o' shoeless feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whan the red cock crew she heard the door<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' a sough o' wind an' weet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span> +<span class="i0">An' Janet cam' back wi' a wan face,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But never a word said she;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No man ever heard her voice lood oot—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It cam' like frae ower the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And no man ever heard her lauch,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor yet say alas nor wae;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But a smile aye glimmert on her wan face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like the moonlicht on the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And ilka nicht 'twixt the Sancts an' Souls<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wide open she set the door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And that spale upo' the flure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Aye steekin' door and door.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whan the red cock crew she cam' ben the hoose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Aye wanner than before.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wanner her face and sweeter her smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till the seventh All-Souls Eve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her mither she heard the shoeless feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Says "She's comin', I believe."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But she camna ben, an' her mither lay;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For fear she cudna stan',<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But up she rase an' ben she gaed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whan the gowden cock hed crawn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Janet sat upo' the chair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">White as the day did daw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her smile was as sunlight left on the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whan the sun has gane awa.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HALLOWS' E'EN:</span> <span class="author">WINIFRED M. LETTS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The girls are laughing with the boys, and gaming by the fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They're wishful, every one of them, to see her heart's desire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twas Thesie cut the barnbrack and found the ring inside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before next Hallows' E'en has dawned herself will be a bride.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But little Mollie stands alone outside the cabin door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And breaks her heart for one the waves threw dead upon the shore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Twas Katie's nut lepped from the hearth, and left poor Pat's alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Ellen's stayed by Christy Byrne's upon the wide hearthstone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' all the while the childher bobbed for apples set afloat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old men smoked their pipes and talked about the foundered boat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Mollie walked upon the cliff, and never feared the rain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She called the name of one she loved and bid him come again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Young Peter pulled the cabbage-stump to win a wealthy wife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rosanna threw the apple-peel to know who'd share her life;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Lizzie had a looking-glass she'd hid in some dark place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To try if there, foreninst her own, she'd see her comrade's face.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span> +<span class="i0">But Mollie walked along the quay where Terry's feet had trod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sobbed her grief out in the night, with no one near but God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She heard the laughter from the house, she heard the fiddle played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She called her dead love to her side—why should she be afraid?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She took his cold hands in her own, she had no thought of dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And not a star looked out to watch the living kiss the dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lads are gaming with the girls, and laughing by the fire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Mollie in the cold, dark night, has found her heart's desire.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ON KINGSTON BRIDGE:</span> <span class="author">ELLEN M. H. CORTISSOZ</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">(On All Souls' Night the dead walk on Kingston Bridge.—<i>Old Legend.</i>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through hurrying mists in shrouded glow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The boding night-wind made its moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The mighty river crept below.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together walked,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together talked,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Kingston Bridge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span> +<span class="i0">Two met who had not met for years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once was their hate too deep for fears:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One drew his rapier as he came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upleapt his anger like a flame.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With clash of mail he faced his foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bade him stand and meet him so.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He felt a graveyard wind go by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cold, cold as was his enemy.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A stony horror held him fast.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Dead looked with a ghastly stare,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sighed "I know thee not," and passed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like to the mist, and left him there<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Kingston Bridge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together walked,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together talked,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Kingston Bridge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Two met who had not met for years:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With grief that was too deep for tears<br /></span> +<span class="i4">They parted last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He clasped her hand, and in her eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sought Love's rapturous surprise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, Sweet!" he cried, "hast thou come back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To say thou lov'st thy lover still?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Into the starlight, pale and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She gazed afar—her hand was chill:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Dost thou remember how we kept<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our ardent vigils?—how we kissed?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take thou these kisses as of old!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An icy wind about him swept;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I know thee not," she sighed, and passed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Into the dim and shrouding mist<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Kingston Bridge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together walked,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead together talked,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Kingston Bridge.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ALL SOULS' NIGHT:</span> <span class="author">LOUISA HUMPHREYS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Canice the priest went out on the Night of Souls;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the night is dark and the way is lone abroad;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stay within because it is lone, at least."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay, it will not be lone," said Canice the priest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A scent of earth in the night, of opened mould;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A listening pause in the night—and a breath passed by—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Canice went on to the waste where no men be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay, I will not be lone to-night," said he.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shades that flit, besides the shades of the night;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steps of feet that pace with his on the right,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Steps that pace on the left, and steps behind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay, no fear that I shall be lone, at least!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo, there are throngs abroad," said Canice the priest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Canice the priest swings on, atune with them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hears the word they utter, and answers "Yea!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, poor souls, for I heed; I pray, I pray."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span> +<span class="i0">Lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hark, a bird that trills a song of the light.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Canice hies him home by the shine of the sun.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Maria, ora pro illis!" Canice said.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ALL_THE_LITTLE_SIGHING_SOULS" id="ALL_THE_LITTLE_SIGHING_SOULS"></a>"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">MARY SHEPHERDESS:</span> <span class="author">MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the heron's in the high wood and the last long furrow's sown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the herded cloud before her and her sea-sweet raiment blown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes Mary, Mary Shepherdess, a-seeking for her own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saint James he calls the righteous folk, Saint John he calls the kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saint Peter seeks the valiant men all to loose or bind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Mary seeks the little souls that are so hard to find.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the little sighing souls born of dust's despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They who fed on bitter bread when the world was bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All about the windy down, housing in the ling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Underneath the alder-bough linnet-light they cling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frighted of the shining house where the martyrs sing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the lane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mary, Mary Shepherdess gathers them again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And O the wandering women know, in workhouse and in shed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They dream on Mary Shepherdess with doves about her head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow comforted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span> +<span class="i0">Saying: there's my little lass, faring fine and free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's the little lad I laid by the holly tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dreaming: There's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If I had a little maid to turn my tears away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LITTLE GHOST:</span> <span class="author">KATHERINE TYNAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The stars began to peep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gone was the bitter day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She heard the milky ewes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bleat to their lambs astray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her heart cried for her lamb<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lapped cold in the churchyard sod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She could not think on the happy children<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At play with the Lamb of God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She heard the calling ewes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the lambs answer alas!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She heard her heart's blood drip in the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the ewes' milk on the grass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her tears that burnt like fire<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So bitter and slow ran down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She could not think on the new-washed children<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Playing by Mary's gown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, who is this comes in<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Over her threshold stone?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And why is the old dog wild with joy<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who all day long made moan?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This fair little radiant ghost,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her one little son of seven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New 'scaped from the band of merry children<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the nurseries of Heaven.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was all clad in white<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Without a speck or stain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His curls had a ring of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That rose and fell again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now come with me, my own mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And you shall have great ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For you shall see the lost children<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gathered at Mary's knees."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, lightly sprang she up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor waked her sleeping man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hand in hand with the little ghost<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the dark night she ran.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is gone swift as a fawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As a bird homes to its nest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She has seen them lie, the sleepy children,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twixt Mary's arm and breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At morning she came back;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her eyes were strange to see.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She will not fear the long journey,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">However long it be.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she goes in and out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sings unto hersel';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For she has seen the mother's children<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And knows that it is well.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">TWO BROTHERS:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dead son's mother sat and wept<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And her live son plucked at her gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But she beat the small hands down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little live son he clung to her knee—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And frightened his eyes and dim—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Have ye never, my mother, a word for me?"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But she turned her face from him,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saying, "Oh and alack, mine own dead son,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could I know but the path aright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How fast and how fast my feet would run<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the way o' Death to-night!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saying, "Oh and alack, for thy empty place<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the ache in my heart to hide!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little live son has touched her face,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But she thrust his hands aside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The mother hath laid her down and wept<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the midnight's chill and gloom;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the hour ere dawn while the mother slept<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ghost came in the room.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the little live son hath called his name<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or ever he passed the door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For our mother's grief is sore!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As a rain that beats all day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But me she pushes from off her knee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And turneth her eyes away."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the little dead son he spake again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"My brother, the dead have grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though they lay them low from the sight of men<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a white cloth on their face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though lonely and low they lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By my mother's love do I speak and move<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And may not wholly die."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little live son he sighed apart,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Oh, brother, ye live," quoth he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"In my mother's grief and my mother's heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And my mother's memory.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And vain for thee is my mother's cry,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The little live son hath said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"For ye are loved and ye may not die—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It is only I who am dead!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LITTLE DEAD CHILD:</span> <span class="author">JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When all but her were sleeping fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the night was nearly fled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little dead child came up the stair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And stood by his mother's bed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span> +<span class="i0">"Ah, God!" she cried, "the nights are three,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And yet I have not slept!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little dead child he sat him down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sank his head and wept.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And is it thou, my little dead child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come in from out the storm?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, lie thou back against my heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I will keep thee warm!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>That is long ago, mother,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Long and long ago!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Shall I grow warm who lay three nights</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Beneath the winter snow?</i><br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Hast thou not heard the old nurse weep?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sings to us no more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thy brothers leave the broken toys<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And whisper in the door."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>That is far away, mother,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Far and far away!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Above my head the stone is white.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>My hands forget to play.</i><br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What wilt thou then, my little dead child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since here thou may'st not lie?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, me! that snow should be thy sheet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And winds thy lullaby!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Down within my grave, mother,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>I heard, I know not how,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>"Go up to God, thou little child,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Go up and meet him now!"</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That is far to fare, mother,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Far and far to fare!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I come for thee to carry me</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>The way from here to there.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, hold thy peace, my little dead child.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My heart will break in me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy way to God thou must go alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I may not carry thee!"<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The cock crew out the early dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ere she could stay her moan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She heard the cry of a little child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon his way alone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE CHILD ALONE:</span> <span class="author">ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They say the night has fallen chill—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But I know naught of mist or rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only of two small hands that still<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beat on the darkness all in vain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They say the wind blows high and wild<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Down the long valleys to the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I can only hear the child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who weeps in darkness, wanting me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beyond the footfalls in the street,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above the voices of the bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear the sound of little feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Two little stumbling feet astray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, loud the autumn wind makes moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The desolate wind about my door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a little child goes all alone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who never was alone before.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE CHILD:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I heard her crying in the night,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So long, so long I lay awake,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Watching the moonlight ebb and break<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the sill like waves of light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I tried to close my eyes nor heed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And lie quite still—but oh, again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The little voice of fright and pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sobbed in the darkness of her need.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Strange shadows led me down the stair;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Creaked as I went the hollow floor;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I drew the bolt and flung the door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wide, wide, and softly called her there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Ah me, as happy mothers call</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Through the tender twilights to the gay,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Glad truant making holiday</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Too long before the evenfall.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The garden odors drifted through,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The scent of earth and box and rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then, as silently as those,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little wistful child I knew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span> +<span class="i0">So small, so frightened and so cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, close, so close I gathered her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Within my arms, she might not stir,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And crooned and kissed her in their hold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>As might a happy mother, when,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>One runs to her for comforting,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And smiles within her arms again.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All night upon my heart she lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All night I held her warm and close,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until the morning wind arose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And called across the world for day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The garden odors drifted through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The open door; as still as they<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She passed into the awful day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little, wistful child I knew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Think you for this God's smile may dim<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(His are so many, many dead)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seeing that I but comforted<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A child—and sent her back to Him!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY:</span> <span class="author">ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three days she wandered forth from me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then sought me as of old.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I did not know how dark 'twould be,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sobbed, "nor yet how cold."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span> +<span class="i0">And it is chill for me to fare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who have not long been dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If thou wouldst give away thy cloak<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I might go comforted."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I would have soothed her on my breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But that she needs must go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead must journey without rest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whether they will or no.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But I had kept for love of her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cloak she wore, the shoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every day I touched the things<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She had been wont to use.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All night the dead must hurry on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They may not ever sleep.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so I gave away her cloak<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I was fain to keep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The second time she sought me out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her eyes were full of need.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"If thou wouldst give away my shoes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Perchance I would not bleed."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I cried to her aloud, "My child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They are all I have to keep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lay my hand upon and touch<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At night before I sleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The earth shall keep the body I bore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let be—I ask a little thing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I should keep thy shoes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span> +<span class="i0">"But I will give away my own.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let Thou her road to Paradise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This way be eased by me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All night alone by brier and stone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I ran that road unshod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So I might know instead of her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The pains that lead to God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When next she came for a brief space<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She tarried at my side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So happy was she in that place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So glad that she had died.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The last night that I roamed," she said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Some one had gone before.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I followed where those feet had led,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And found it rough no more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And then I came to a good place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So kind, so dear are they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I may not come again," and so<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She smiled and went away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear Christ, Who died to save us all,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who trod the ways so cold and wild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The love of Mary in thy heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did let me ease my child.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She may not leave the place of bliss,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I may not touch her hands and hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But every night I touch and kiss<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shoes she used to wear.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE OPEN DOOR:</span> <span class="author">ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While bare black night through empty casements staring<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hush and listen—listen—but never turn your head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leave the door upon the latch—she could never reach it—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Weeping as once in the long years past away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There all her toys were kept, there she used to play.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Falls as it once fell on a tide past over,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span> +<span class="i0">Far or near no one knew—none would now remember<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where she wandered no one knew—none will ever know;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS:</span> <span class="author">MARGUERITE ELIZABETH EASTER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">They are my laddie's hounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That rin the wood at brak o' day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At brak o' day?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">They cleek aff thegither,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then fa' back, wi' room atween<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The baith cleek aff thegither<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Wi' ane atween!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And when toward the pines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up yonder lane they loup alang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see ae laddie brent and strang,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I see ae laddie loup alang<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Toward the pines.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">I follow them in mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' skir the field; I follow them,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I ken the way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span> +<span class="i2">They daddle at the creek,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' drink o' springs that spait the creek<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Maist to the logs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">He's but a bairn, atho'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hunts the mountain's lonely bree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He ties; he's but a bairn, atho'<br /></span> +<span class="i6">He hunts the bree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Fu' length they a' stretch out<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon ae bink that green trees hap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Whaur green trees hap.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And noo he fades awa'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frae 'tween the twa—into the blue.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That he has gane for aye awa<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Into the blue!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">They are my laddie's hounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That mak the hill at fa' o' day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Till fa' o day?</i><br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE OLD HOUSE:</span> <span class="author">KATHERINE TYNAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The boys who used to come and go<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the grey kindly house are flown.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They have taken the way the young feet know;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not alone, not alone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thronged is the road the young feet go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet in the quiet evening hour<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What comes, oh, lighter than a bird?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Touches her cheek, soft as a flower.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What moved, what stirred?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What was the joyous whisper heard?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What flitted in the corridor<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a boy's shape so dear and slight?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What was the laughter ran before?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Delicate, light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like harps the wind plays out of sight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The boys who used to go and come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the grey house are come again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the grey house and firelit room<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They are fain, they are fain:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They have come home from the night and rain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SHADOWY_HEROES" id="SHADOWY_HEROES"></a>SHADOWY HEROES</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span></p> +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD:</span> <span class="author">ERNEST RHYS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I followed three shadows against the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But they sang no longer of Agincourt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I but brought thee home to break thee here."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which our tired hearts are come!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His good sword bright in his right hand,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The moon did shake in the south to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead man stand with his soldiery.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span> +<span class="i0">But the brighter his sword, the grave before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Therein the thousand, before their Lord,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marched at the summons of his bright sword.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I stood alone by the grave again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But brightly his sword still before me shone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the dark moor as I passed alone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And still it shines, a silver flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the dark night of the Cymraec shame.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LOOKING-GLASS:</span> <span class="author">RUDYARD KIPLING</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her petticoat was of satin, and her stomacher was gold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I will stand beside you till you face the looking-glass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span> +<span class="i0">The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">DRAKE'S DRUM:</span> <span class="author">HENRY NEWBOLT</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' the shore light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span> +<span class="i0">Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' dreamin' all the time of Plymouth Hoe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Call him when ye sail to meet the foe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE GREY GHOST:</span> <span class="author">FRANCIS CARLIN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through misty Connemara in the West;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And those who seek the cause of his unrest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Need go but to the Death-dumb in the clay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To those that fell defiant in the fray,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Left Hell and Connaught open on their way.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span> +<span class="i0">As I have heard so may the stranger hear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That he who drove the natives from the lawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the Irish gather with a cheer<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Dublin of the Parliaments at dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">God rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE:</span> <span class="author">FRANCIS CARLIN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On Douglas Bridge I met a man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who lived adjacent to Straban,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before the English hung him high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For riding with O'Hanlon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The eyes of him were just as fresh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when they burned within the flesh;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his boot-legs widely walked apart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From riding with O'Hanlon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"God save you, Sir!" I said with fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"You seem to be a stranger here."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Not I," said he, "nor any man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who rides with Count O'Hanlon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I know each glenn from North Tyrone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Monaghan, and I've been known<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By every clan and parish, since<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I rode with Count O'Hanlon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Before that time," said he with pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My fathers rode where now they ride<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As Rapperees, before the time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Trouble and O'Hanlon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span> +<span class="i0">"Good night to you, and God be with<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Tellers of the tale and myth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For they are of the spirit-stuff<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That rides with Count O'Hanlon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Good night to you," said I, "and God<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be with the chargers, fairy-shod,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That bear the Ulster's heroes forth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To ride with Count O'Hanlon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On Douglas Bridge we parted, but<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Gap o' Dreams is never shut,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To one whose saddled soul to-night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rides out with Count O'Hanlon.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND:</span> <span class="author">PHILIP FRENEAU</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In spite of all the learned have said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I still my old opinion keep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The posture that we give the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Points out the soul's eternal sleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not so the ancients of these lands;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Indian, when from life released,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again is seated with his friends,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shares again the joyous feast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His imaged birds and painted bowl,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And venison, for a journey dressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bespeak the nature of the soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Activity, that wants no rest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span> +<span class="i0">His bow for action ready bent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And arrows with a head of stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can only mean that life is spent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And not the old ideas gone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou, stranger that shalt come this way,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No fraud upon the dead commit,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Observe the swelling turf and say,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They do not lie, but here they sit.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here still a lofty rock remains,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On which the curious eye may trace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Now wasted half by wearing rains,)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fancies of a ruder race.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here still an aged elm aspires,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath whose far projecting shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(And which the shepherd still admires,)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The children of the forest played.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There oft a restless Indian queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Pale Shebah with her braided hair,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a barbarous form is seen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To chide the man that lingers there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By midnight moons, o'er misting dews,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In habit of the chase arrayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hunter still the deer pursues,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The hunter and the deer—a shade!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And long shall timorous Fancy see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The painted chief and pointed spear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Reason's self shall bow the knee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To shadows and delusions here.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="RANK_ON_RANK_OF_GHOSTLY_SOLDIERS" id="RANK_ON_RANK_OF_GHOSTLY_SOLDIERS"></a>"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span></p> +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE SONG OF SOLDIERS:</span> <span class="author">WALTER DE LA MARE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I sat musing by the frozen dyke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was one man marching with a bright steel pike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL:</span> <span class="author">HELEN GRAY CONE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>A Ballad of Ninety-eight</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The soul of the fair young man sprang up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the earth where his body lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he was aware of a grim dark soul<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Companioning his way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span> +<span class="i0">"Who are you, brother?" the fair soul said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"We wing together still!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the soul replied that was swart and red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The spirit of him who shot you dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the blockhouse on the hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Your men and you on the crest were first,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the last foe left was I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the hot charge panted nigh.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You saw me writhe at the side of the trench;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You bade—I know not what;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With one last gnash, with one last wrench,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I sped my last, sure shot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The thing that lies on the sodden ground<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a wrack of the whirlwind's track,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your men have made of the body of me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But they could not call you back!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In that black game I won, I won!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But had you worked your will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Speak now the shame that you would have done<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the blockhouse under the hill!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"God judge my men!" said the fair young soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"He knows you tried them sore.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had He given me power to bide an hour<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I had wrought that they forebore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I bade them, ere your bullet brought<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This swift, this sweet release,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bear your body out of the fire<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That you might rest in peace."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span> <span class="i0">Said the grim dark soul, "Farewell, farewell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Farewell 'twixt you and me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till they set red Judas free from Hell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To kneel at the Lord Christ's knee!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not so, not so," said the fair young soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"But reach me out your hand:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We two will kneel at the Lord Christ's knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he that was hanged on the cruel tree<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will remember and understand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"We two will pray at the Lord Christ's knee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That never on earth again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sight in the eyes of men!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The clean stars came into the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The perfect night was still;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the blockhouse under the hill.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">NIGHT AT GETTYSBURG:</span> <span class="author">DON C. SEITZ</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The army rallies to the beating drums;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Columns are formed and banners wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er armies summoned from the grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wheat field waves with reddened grain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the wounded wail and writhe in pain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hard-held Bloody Angle drips anew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While where the road to the village turns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE RIDERS:</span> <span class="author">KATHERINE TYNAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rheims is down in fire and smoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hour of God is at the stroke,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Round and round the ruined place,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jesus, Mary, give us grace!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are two riders clad in mail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silver as the moon is pale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One is tall as a knight's spear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The younger one is lowlier.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Small and slim and like a maid—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steeds and riders cast no shade.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who are then these cavaliers?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who are those who ride so light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soundless in the flaming light,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where Rheims burns, that was given<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught is left of her renown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hist! what sound is in the breeze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the sighing of forest trees?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or the great wind, or an army,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or the waves of the wild sea?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span> <span class="i0">The tall knight rides fierce and fast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the sound of a trumpet-blast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little knight in fire and flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slender and soft as a dame,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rides and is not far behind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His long hair floats on the wind,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And ever the tramp of chivalry<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes like the sound of the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is Michael rides abroad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prince of the army of God,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And this like a lily arrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is Joan, the blesséd Maid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rheims is down in fire and smoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the hour of God's at the stroke.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE WHITE COMRADE:</span> <span class="author">ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under our curtain of fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the clotted clods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We charged, to be withered, to reel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And despairingly wheel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the signal bade us retire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the terrible odds.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span> +<span class="i0">As we ebbed with the battle-tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fingers of red-hot steel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suddenly closed on my side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fell, and began to pray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I crawled on my hands and lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a shallow crater yawned wide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then,—I swooned....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I woke, it was yet day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fierce was the pain of my wound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I saw it was death to stir,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For fifty paces away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their trenches were.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In torture I prayed for the dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the stealthy step of my friend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, stanch to the very end,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would creep to the danger zone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And offer his life as a mark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To save my own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Night fell. I heard his tread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not stealthy, but firm and serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if my comrade's head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were lifted far from that scene<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of passion and pain and dread;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if my comrade's heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In carnage took no part;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if my comrade's feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were set on some radiant street<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such as no darkness might haunt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if my comrade's eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No deluge of flame could surprise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No death and destruction daunt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No red-beaked bird dismay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor sight of decay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span> <span class="i0">Then in the bursting shells' dim light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw he was clad in white.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a moment I thought that I saw the smock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a shepherd in search of his flock.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alert were the enemy, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And their bullets flew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight at a mark no bullet could fail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he did not flee nor quail.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Instead, with unhurrying stride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gathering my tall frame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a child, in his arms....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Again I slept,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And awoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From a blissful dream<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a cave by a stream.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My silent comrade had bound my side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mastering wish to serve this man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As only the truest of comrades can.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And urgently prayed him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never to leave me, whatever betide;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I saw he was hurt—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then as the dark drops gathered there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fell in the dirt,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span> +<span class="i0">The wounds of my friend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed to me such as no man might bear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those bullet-holes in the patient hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed to transcend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had known or would know till the mad world's end.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then suddenly I was aware<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That his feet had been wounded too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, dimming the white of his side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dull stain grew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His words I already foreknew:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>These are old wounds</i>," said he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>But of late they have troubled me.</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">GHOSTS OF THE ARGONNE:</span> <span class="author">GRANTLAND RICE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They sound like the rustle of winter leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or rain that drips from the forest eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they glide again from their silent crosses<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To meet and talk of their final fight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where over the group some stark tree tosses<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its eerie shadow across the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If you'll take some night with its moonless weather,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I know you will reason beyond a doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the rain and the wind and the leaves together<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are making the sounds you will hear about:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span> +<span class="i0">The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The whispering wind through the matted glen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I can swear it's a sergeant calling<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ghostly roll of his squad again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They talk of war and its crimson glory,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And laugh at the trick which Fate has played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And over and over they tell the story<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of their final charge through the Argonne glade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But gathering in by hill and hollow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is one set rule which the clan must follow:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They never speak of returning home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They whisper still of the rifles' clatter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The riveting racket machine guns gave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As each one glides to his waiting grave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But here at the end of their last endeavor<br /></span> +<span class="i2">However their stark dreams leap the foam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is one set rule they will keep forever:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">NOVEMBER ELEVENTH:</span> <span class="author">RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of a great play-ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields that ringed them round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off sound.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span> <span class="i0">"Listen," he cried, "they <i>know</i>, down there! Oh! don't you hear the bells?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used to hear the shells.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent with an anxious frown,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little own home town!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear my dad! I can almost <i>see</i>—" and his eager gaze plunged down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these teasing dreams will cease!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the Golden Fleece!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still the new boy turned his white young face from the Land of the Great Release.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the terms of peace.</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="SEA_GHOSTS" id="SEA_GHOSTS"></a>SEA GHOSTS</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE FLYING DUTCHMAN:</span> <span class="author">CHARLES GODFREY LELAND</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We met the <i>Flying Dutchman</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By midnight he came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hull was all of hell fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His sails were all aflame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fire on the main-top,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fire on the bow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fire on the gun-deck,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fire down below.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Four-and-twenty dead men,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Those were the crew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The devil on the bowsprit,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fiddled as she flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We gave her the broadside,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right in the dip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just like a candle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Went out the ship.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE PHANTOM SHIP:</span> <span class="author">HENRY W. LONGFELLOW</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Mather's Magnalia Christi,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the old colonial time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May be found in prose the legend<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That is here set down in rhyme.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A ship sailed from New Haven,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the keen and the frosty airs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That filled her sails at parting,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were heavy with good men's prayers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span> <span class="i0">"O Lord, if it be thy pleasure"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thus prayed the old divine—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"To bury our friends in the ocean,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Take them, for they are thine."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Master Lamberton muttered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And under his breath said he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"This ship is so crank and walty,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I fear our grave she will be!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the ships that came from England,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the winter months were gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brought no tidings of this vessel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor of Master Lamberton.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This put the people to praying<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That the Lord would let them hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What in his greater wisdom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He had done with their friends so dear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And at last their prayers were answered:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It was in the month of June,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An hour before the sunset<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a windy afternoon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When steadily steering landward,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A ship was seen below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who sailed so long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On she came with a cloud of canvas,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right against the wind that blew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the eye could distinguish<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The faces of the crew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span> <span class="i0">Then fell her straining topmasts,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hanging tangled in the shrouds.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her sails were loosened and lifted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And blown away like clouds.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the masts, with all their rigging,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fell slowly, one by one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the hulk dilated and vanished,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As a sea-mist in the sun!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the people who saw this marvel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each said unto his friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That this was the mould of the vessel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thus her tragic end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the pastor of the village<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gave thanks to God in prayer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, to quiet their troubled spirits,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He had sent this ship of air.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS:</span> +<span class="author">ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ripples that reach to the forest side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the fisherman's boat, in the track of sheen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plying through tangled seaweed green,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span> <span class="i0">Who has not heard of the phantom light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That over the moaning waves at night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dances and drifts in endless play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close to the shore, then far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cold as the winter light that lies<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They tell us that many a year ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From lands where the palm and olive grow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where vines with their purple clusters creep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the hillsides gray and steep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Famed in that chivalrous time of old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For valorous deeds and courage rare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sailed with a princess wondrous fair<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A murderous band as e'er could be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swept in the wake of the lovers there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sank the ship and its freight so fair<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They say that a ball of fire fell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lighting the bay from shore to shore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the ship with a shudder and a groan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sank through the waves to the caverns lone<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span> <span class="i0">That was the last of the pirate crew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But many a night a black flag flew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By a spectre band that wept and wailed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the wreck they had wrought on the sea and the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is the tale of the phantom light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fills the mariner's heart at night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now by the shore, then far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cold as the winter moon that lies<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the Baie des Chaleurs.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE SANDS OF DEE:</span> <span class="author">CHARLES KINGSLEY</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And call the cattle home,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And call the cattle home,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Across the sands of Dee!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all alone went she.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The western tide crept up along the sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And o'er and o'er the sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And round and round the sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As far as eye could see.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rolling mist came down and hid the land—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never home came she.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A tress of golden hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A drownéd maiden's hair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above the nets at sea?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Among the stakes of Dee."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They rowed her in across the rolling foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The cruel, crawling foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The cruel, hungry foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To her grave beside the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Across the sands of Dee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP:</span> <span class="author">THOMAS MOORE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"They made her a grave too cold and damp<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a soul so warm and true;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She paddles her white canoe.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And her paddle I soon shall hear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long and loving our life shall be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the footstep of death is near!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His path was rugged and sore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And man never trod before!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span> <span class="i0">And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If slumber his eyelids knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lay where the deadly vine doth weep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its venomous tear, and nightly steep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The flesh with blistering dew!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, when shall I see the dusky Lake,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the white canoe of my dear?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Quick over its surface played,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the dim shore echoed for many a night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The name of the death-cold maid!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which carried him off from shore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far he followed the meteor spark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind was high and the clouds were dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the boat returned no more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This lover and maid so true,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are seen at the hour of midnight damp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To cross the lake by a firefly lamp,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And paddle their white canoe!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF THE TAPPAN ZEE:</span> +<span class="author">ARTHUR GUITERMAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On Tappan Zee a shroud of gray<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is heavy, dank, and low.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dimly gleams the beacon-ray<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of white Pocantico.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No skipper braves old Hudson now<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where Nyack's Headlands frown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And safely moored is every prow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of drowsy Tarrytown;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet, clear as word of human lip,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The river sends its shores<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rhythmic rullock-clank and drip<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of even-rolling oars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What rower plies a reckless oar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With mist on flood and strand?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Oarsman toils forevermore<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And ne'er shall reach the land.<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Roystering, rollicking Ram van Dam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fond of a frolic and fond of a dram,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fonder—yea, fonder, proclaims renown,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Tryntje Bogardus of Tarrytown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaves Spuyten Duyvil to roar his song!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pull! For the current is sly and strong;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nestles the robin and flies the bat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ho! for the frolic at Kakiat!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Merry, the sport at the quilting bee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Held at the farm on the Tappan Zee!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span> +<span class="i0">Jovial labor with quips and flings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dances with wonderful pigeon wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twitter of maidens and clack of dames,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Honest flirtations and rousing games;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Platters of savory beef and brawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buckets of treacle and good suppawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oceans of cider, and beer in lakes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mountains of crullers and honey-cakes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such entertainment could never pall!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rambout Van Dam took his fill of all;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughed with the wittiest, worked with a zest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Danced with the prettiest, drank with the best.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! that enjoyment should breed annoy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tryntje grew fickle or cold or coy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rambout, possessed of a jealous sprite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scowled like the sky on a stormy night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snarled a good-bye from his sullen throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blustered away to his tugging boat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After him hastened Jacobus Horn:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Stay with us, Rambout, till Monday morn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soon in the east will the dawn be gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rest from thy oars on the Sabbath Day."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Angrily Rambout van Dam ripped back:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Dunder en Blitzen! du Schobbejak!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Preach to thy children! and let them know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spite of the duyvil and thee, I'll row<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thousands of Sundays, if need there be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home o'er this ewig-vervlekte zee!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Muttering curses, he headed south.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jacob, astounded, with open mouth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watched him receding, when—crash on crash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Volleyed the thunder! A hissing flash<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span> +<span class="i0">Smote on the river! He looked again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rambout was gone from the sight of men!<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old Dunderberg with grumbling roar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hath warned the fog to flee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still that never-wearied oar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is heard on Tappan Zee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A moon is closed on Hudson's breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And lanterns gem the town;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The phantom craft that may not rest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Plies ever, up and down,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Neath skies of blue and skies of gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In spite of wind or tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the trump of Judgment Day—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sound—and naught beside.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED:</span> <span class="author">JOYCE KILMER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With drooping sail and pennant<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That never a wind may reach,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They float in sunless waters<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beside a sunless beach.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their misty masts and funnels<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are white as driven snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with a pallid radiance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their ghostly bulwarks glow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is a Spanish galleon<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That once with gold was gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is a Roman trireme<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose hues outshone the day.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span> +<span class="i0">But Tyrian dyes have faded,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And prows that once were bright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rainbow stains wear only<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Death's livid, dreadful white.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White as the ice that clove her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That unforgotten day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among her pallid sisters<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The grim <i>Titanic</i> lay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the leagues above her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She looked aghast and said:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What is this living ship that comes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where every ship is dead?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ghostly vessels trembled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From ruined stern to prow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What was this thing of terror<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That broke their vigil now?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down through the startled ocean<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A mighty vessel came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not white, as all dead ships must be,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But red, like living flame!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The pale green waves above her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were swiftly, strangely dyed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the great scarlet stream that flowed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From out her wounded side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all her decks were scarlet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all her shattered crew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She sank among the white ghost ships<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And stained them through and through.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The grim <i>Titanic</i> greeted her.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"And who art thou?" she said;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Arrayed in living red?<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span> +<span class="i0">We are the ships of sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who spend the weary night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the dawn of Judgment Day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Obscure and still and white."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Though I sink through the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A ruined thing that was a ship,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I sink not as did ye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For ye met with your destiny<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By storm or rock or fight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So through the lagging centuries<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye wear your robes of white.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But never crashing iceberg<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor honest shot of foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor hidden reef has sent me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The way that I must go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My wounds that stain the waters,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My blood that is like flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bear witness to a loathly deed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A deed without a name.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I went not forth to battle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I carried friendly men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The children played about my decks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The women sang—and then—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then—the sun blushed scarlet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Heaven hid its face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world that God created<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Became a shameful place!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My wrongs cry out for vengeance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The blow that sent me here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Has reached Jehovah's ear.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span> +<span class="i0">Not all the seven oceans<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall wash away that stain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the brow that wears a crown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am the brand of Cain."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When God's great voice assembles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fleet on Judgment Day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ghosts of ruined ships will rise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In sea and strait and bay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though they have lain for ages<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath the changeless flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They shall be white as silver,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But one—shall be like blood.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM:</span> <span class="author">ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A spell is on thy hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind shall be thy changeful loom,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy web the twisting sand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On Blackrock's sullen shore:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till cordage of the sand shall coil<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where crested surges roar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis for that hour, when from the wave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Near voices wildly cried;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thy stern hand no succour gave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cable at thy side.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span> <span class="i0">Twist thou and twine! In light and gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spell is on thine hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind shall be thy changeful loom,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy web the shifting sand.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">SEA-GHOSTS:</span> <span class="author">MAY BYRON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O' stormy nights, be they summer or winter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hurricane nights like these,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When spar and topsail are rag and splinter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hurled o'er the sluicing seas,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Climb as you best may climb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie there and listen where mysteries hover,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Haunting the tides of Time.<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The great waves topple and pour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of the fury of ancient battles,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Clamant with cries of war.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gale has summoned, the night has beckoned—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lo, from the east and west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stately shadows arise unreckoned<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out of their deeps of rest!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wild on the wind are voices ringing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Echoes that throng the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Valiant voices, of victory singing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or dark with sublime despair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span> <span class="i0">To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The answering trumpets blow:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">War-horn and fife and cymbals follow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From galleys of long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The crested breaker on reef and boulder<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That swirls in cavernous black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Carries a challenge from decks that moulder<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To ships that never came back.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are one in their wrath and might<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the crash and clashing of arméd vessels,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grinding across the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the dark the broadsides thunder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Clattering to and fro:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are manning their wrecks below.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall mark on the surly blast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rush and tear of the rending tackle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thud of the falling mast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Scourging the strand again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A terrible outcry leaps and shatters—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tumult of drowning men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was never such fear as this!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out of the sea's abyss.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span> <span class="i0">It quails and quivers, its grassy verges<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Vibrant with uttermost dread:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It knows the groan of the laden surges,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shout of the deathless Dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In a rolling march of reverberations,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Marching with wind and tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heroes of unremembered nations<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Vaunt their immortal pride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Briton, Spaniard, Phœnician, Roman,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gallant implacable hosts—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Locked in fight with phantom foeman,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gather the grim sea-ghosts.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">FOG WRAITHS:</span> <span class="author">MILDRED HOWELLS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In from the ocean the white fog creeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blotting out ship, and rock, and tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Back to the land come the lost at sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the weeping grass they drift<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By well-known paths to their homes again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To finger the latch they may not lift<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And peer through the glistering window-pane.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then in the churchyard each seeks the stone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To its memory raised among the rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they watch by their empty graves alone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="CHEERFUL_SPIRITS" id="CHEERFUL_SPIRITS"></a>CHEERFUL SPIRITS</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span></p> +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">CAPE HORN GOSPEL:</span> <span class="author">JOHN MASEFIELD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"And Bill, as was a seaman, died,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tumbled him across the side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the fun of it was that all his gear was<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Divided up among the crew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before that blushing human error<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our crawling little captain, knew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"On the passage home one morning<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(As certain as I prays for grace)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the mizzen weather topsail brace.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was all grown green with seaweed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He was all lashed up and shored;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So I says to him, I says, 'Why, Billy!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What's a-bringin' of you back aboard?'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Says old Bill's ghost to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'It ain't no place for a Christian<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Below there—under sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For it's all blown sand and shipwrecks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And old bones eaten bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And them cold fishy females<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With long green weeds for hair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span> <span class="i0">"'And there ain't no dances shuffled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And no old yarns is spun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there ain't no stars but starfish,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never any moon or sun.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard your keel a-passing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the running rattle of the brace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I says, "Stand by,"' says William,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'"For a shift towards a better place."'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as so much smoke he faded,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And as so much smoke he goed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I've often wondered since, Jan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How his old ghost stands to fare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long o' them cold fishy females<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With long green weeds for hair."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE:</span> <span class="author">RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Captain is walking his quarter-deck,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a troubled brow and a bended neck;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One eye is down through the hatchway cast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The other turns up to the truck on the mast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet none of the crew may venture to hint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Captain again the letter hath read<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still, since the good ship sail'd away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He reads that letter three times a-day;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span> +<span class="i0">Yet the writing is broad and fair to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As a Skipper may read in his degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Curse the old woman—she bothers me so!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He pauses now, for the topmen hail—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That grim old Captain he turns him quick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The breeze is blowing—huzza! huzza!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breeze is blowing—away! away!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breeze is blowing—a race! a race!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breeze is blowing—we near the chase!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">—"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He stand by the breech of a long carronade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The linstock glows in his bony hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The bullets are flying—huzza! huzza!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bullets are flying—away! away!"—<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span> +<span class="i0">The brawny boarders mount by the chains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And are over their buckles in blood and in brains.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Young Hamilton Tighe waves his cutlass high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A wink comes sly from that sinister eye—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now Hamilton's dead, I've ten thousand a-year!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady has donned her mantle and hood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the tablet fair shall be hung on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her coach and four Draws up to the door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With her groom, and her footman, and a half score more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lady steps into her coach alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span> +<span class="i0">They close the door, and they turn the pin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there's One rides with her that never stept in!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the way there, and all the way back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man sitting there with his head on his knees!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis ever the same—in hall or in bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherever the place, whatever the hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Lady mutters, and talks to the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"She talks to a man with never a head!"<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They seem to be trying to peep at his ears;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all his knaves stand upside down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Kings and the Aces, and all the best trumps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Get into the hands of the other old frumps;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, close to his partner, a man he sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a great black doll hangs out of the door;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span> +<span class="i0">There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And musty phials, and fusty rags,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May say what they please, and may do what they can;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But one things seems remarkably clear,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But wherever they live, or whenever they die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION:</span> <span class="author">THOMAS HOOD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>A Pathetic Ballad</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—<i>Mercutio.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When all in a hungry trim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With wife, and Kate and Jim.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span>Said he, "Upon this dainty cod<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How bravely I shall sup"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When, whiter than the tablecloth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A ghost came rising up!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O father dear, O mother dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dear Kate, and brother Jim—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know when some one went to sea—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Don't cry—but I am him!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You hope some day with fond embrace<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To greet your lonesome Jack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But oh, I am come here to say<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm never coming back!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"From Alexandria we set sail,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With corn, and oil, and figs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon the Sow and Pigs!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The ship we pumped till we could see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Old England from the tops;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When down she went with all our hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right in the Channel's Chops.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Just give a look in Norey's Chart,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The very place it tells:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I think it says twelve fathom deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Clay bottom, mixed with shells.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We have at last a call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pug I had for brother Jim,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Kate's parrot, too, and all."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span>"But oh, my spirit cannot rest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Davy Jones's sod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till I've appeared to you and said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Don't sup on that there Cod!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You live on land, and little think<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What passes in the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Last Sunday week, at 2 <span class="smcap">p. m.</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That Cod was picking me!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And seem so nicely done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They put my corpse in many shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Instead of only one.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And do not touch the shrimps;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I was in my briny grave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They sucked my blood like imps!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The brutes I used to pat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They'll know the smell they used to smell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Just try the dog and cat!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The spirit fled, they wept his fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And cried Alas, Alack!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last up started brother Jim—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They called the Dog, they called the Cat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The little Kitten, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And down they put the Cod and sauce<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To see what brutes would do.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span> <span class="i0">Old Tray licked all the oysters up,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Puss never stood at crimps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But munched the Cod—and little Kit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Quite feasted on the Shrimps!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The thing was odd, and minus Cod<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sauce, they stood like posts;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Put no belief in Ghosts!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE:</span> <span class="author">RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>A Legend of Palestine and West Kent</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Come east, come west, Come lance in rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, they came west, and they came east,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Twenty and three, Of high degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All—all save one—and he ran up a tree!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span> +<span class="i2">"Twenty and three! Twenty and three!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All of them nobles of high degree:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"What news? What news? Come tell to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come tell me now, thou page so small!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"O, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beast in byre and Steed in stall;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">—"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Steed in stall or for Watch-dog's bay.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sits alone, And she makes her moan;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dance and song, She considers quite wrong;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span> <span class="i0">"Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tidings rare To him do I bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No learned clerk I trow am I,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But well I ween May there be seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Although no clerk, Well may I mark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The particular turn of her P's and Q's!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And buffets—and pinches his nose till he sneezes;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's heads.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the contents of the scroll met his view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Backward he drew His mailéd shoe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I may not say whither—I never knew.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span> +<span class="i2">"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Twenty and three! There they be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Twenty and three?—Stay—let me see!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stretched in his gore There lieth one more!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and <i>four</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twenty-four trunks I ween are there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ay, twenty-four corpses, I rede there be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A year and a day Have I been away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">King Richard said right graciously,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span> +<span class="i0">"Of all in my host That I love the most,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">FYTTE II</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a belted Knight, In armour dight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is begging a boon on his bended knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With sighs of grief and sounds of woe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O Holy Father, pardon and grace!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In my fury and rage A little Foot-page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have left, I fear me, in evil case:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A scroll of shame From a faithless dame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That sent him—I can't tell your Holiness where!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had he as many necks as hairs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ill it seems that soldier true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Holy Church should vainly sue:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Foot-pages they are by no means rare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thriftless crew, I ween, be they;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Well mote we spare A Page—or a pair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the matter of that—Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span> +<span class="i0">But stout and true Soldiers like you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be prayers for the dead Duly read,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let a mass be sung, and a <i>pater</i> be said:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So may your qualms of conscience cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Holy Father, pardon and grace!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have left, I fear me, in evil case!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alack! and alack! too surely I knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dame Alice I found,—She sank on the ground,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I twisted it on—till I twisted it off!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why really—I hardly know what to say:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fair rose-noble must duly pay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So may his qualms of conscience cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span> <span class="i0">"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O Holy Father, pardon and grace!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">No power could save That paramour knave;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I left him, I wot, in evil case!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His legs lie here and his arms lie there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his head lies—I can't tell your Holiness where!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To hack and to hew A champion true<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Foul sin her warriors so to slay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pray for his soul for ever and aye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None of your rascally '<i>dips</i>'—but sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So may your qualms of conscience cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No champion free of the Cross was he;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No belted Baron of high degree;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No Knight nor Squire Did there expire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span> +<span class="i0">With his monks around him, and early and late,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hath lost his Prior—his Prior his pate!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A horrible thing has come to pass!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say he was '<i>only</i> (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is half so good as a holy Friar?'<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Sceleratissime!—quissime!—issime!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never, I trow, have the <i>Servi servorum</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such a gross violation of <i>morum bonorum</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And won't have again <i>sæcula sæculorum</i>!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come hither to me, My Cardinals three,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My Bishops in <i>partibus</i>, Masters in <i>Artibus</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hither to me, A. B. and D. D.,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Doctors and Proctors of every degree!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As big as a dustman's!—and a candle as well—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll send him where—good manners won't let me tell!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">—"Pardon and grace!—now pardon and grace!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Mea culpa!</i>—in sooth I'm in pitiful case.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peccavi! peccavi!—I've done every wrong!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span> +<span class="i0">And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you really will fight like a trump all day long;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Holy Church shall come in for her share,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I think that the Penitent need not despair!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—If it be so, as you seem to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose innermost wall's encircling bound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there in that Abbey, all the year round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gather the bones of the foully slain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shall place said bones, with all possible care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span> <span class="i0">And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never shall wash himself, comb or shave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor indulge in a pipe— But shall dine upon tripe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And forever abhor, renounce and abjure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and <i>liqueur</i>!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a feeling which prompted a word profane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mere repetition of <i>O meâ culpâ</i>!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Any more from this day, The surname of Bray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an <i>alias</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is off like a shot away and away,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Over the brine To far Palestine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the unburied bones of his victim slain.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span> +<span class="i2">"Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pick up his body and pick up his head!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">FYTTE III</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With right of free-warren (whatever that be);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All in full leaf at the right time of year;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But it's really delightful in spring-time,—and near<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cobham woods to the right,—on the opposite shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind—and before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there they all stand each in their degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two by two in their regular mode,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While a funeral comes down the Rochester road,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cockle in hat and staff in hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come marching in pairs, a holy band!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span> +<span class="i0">Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each with his brazen censer bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And singing away with all his might,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follow the Palmers—a goodly sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While all sorts of queer men<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bring up the rear—Men-at-arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nigger captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How some sang the <i>requiem</i>, some toll'd the bell;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The procession I speak of reached the <i>Sacellum</i>:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Received the first taste of the Father's <i>flagellum</i>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—That year after year, having run round the <i>Quad</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span> +<span class="i0">When,—strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What I'm going to tell you,—next Candlemas Eve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Looking out, soon By the light of the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And making, as seems to them, all this ado,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A <i>flagellum</i>, whose lashes appear to be snakes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perceive the Friar has <span class="smcap">no head on his shoulders</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if by a closer inspection to find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"—as placed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By our own new police,—in a belt round his waist.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Running after him," so said the Abbot,—"like Bricks!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span> +<span class="i0">Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Course round the Abbey as best he might<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And at this time of day One can hardly survey<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With age, and fast mouldering into decay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still there are many folks living who say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Caulk'd and made water-tight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By command of the Knight,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span> +<span class="i0">Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the body itself in a decentish plight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet the Friar's <i>Pericranium</i> was nowhere in sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Containing the bones brought from far Palestine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This <i>fact</i> with the reason these people assign,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-<i>ine</i>."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis a very nice question—but be't as it may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (<i>ci-devant</i> Bray),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So I think, when the facts of the case you recall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d——d after all!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">MORAL</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In livery or out of it, listen to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See what comes of lying!—don't join in the league<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ladies! married and single, from this understand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How foolish it is to send letters by hand!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'ve a billet to send To a lover or friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love your neighbours, and welcome,—but don't love their wives!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they're shovelling the snow off, "<span class="smcap">take care of your heads</span>"!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Knights!—whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rebuke them—but mildly—don't kick them downstairs!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"If you want matters well managed, Go!—if not, Send!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A servant's too often a negligent elf!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—If it's business of consequence, <span class="smcap">do it yourself</span>!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The state of society seldom requires<br /></span> +<span class="i0">People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now—don't do that by proxy!—but choose your own wife!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the sweet face you look for—<span class="smcap">a saracen's head</span>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">POMPEY'S GHOST:</span> <span class="author">THOMAS HOOD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But twelve o'clock at noon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because the sun was shining bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And not the silver moon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A proper time for friends to call,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or pots, or penny-post;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When lo! as Phoebe sat at work,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She saw her Pompey's ghost!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now when a female has a call<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From people that are dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Paris ladies, she receives<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her visitors in bed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Pompey's spirit would not come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like spirits that are white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because he was a Blackamoor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And wouldn't show at night!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span> + +<span class="i0">But of all unexpected things<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That happen to us here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The most unpleasant is a rise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In what is very dear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So Phoebe screamed an awful scream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To prove the seaman's text,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That after black appearances,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">White squalls will follow next.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Don't go and scream or faint;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You think because I'm black, I am<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Devil, but I ain't!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the heels of Lady Lambe<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I walked while I had breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that is past, and I am now<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A-walking after death!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No murder, though, I come to tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By base and bloody crime;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To some more fitting time.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No coroner, like a boatswain's mate,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My body need attack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his round dozen to find out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why I have died so black.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One Sunday, shortly after tea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My skin began to burn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if I had in my inside<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A heater like a urn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Delirious in the night I grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And as I lay in bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They say I gathered all the wool<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You see upon my head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span> <span class="i0">"His lordship for his doctor sent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My treatment to begin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wish that he had called him out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before he called him in!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For though to physic he was bred,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And passed at Surgeons' Hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make his post a sinecure,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He never cured at all!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The Doctor looked about my breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then about my back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then he shook his head and said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Your case looks very black.'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At first he sent me hot cayenne,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then gamboge to swallow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still my fever would not turn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To scarlet or to yellow!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"With madder and with turmeric,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He made his next attack;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But neither he nor all his drugs<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could stop my dying black.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last I got so sick of life,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sick of being dosed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One Monday morning I gave up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My physic and the ghost!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sever every tie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know black beetles feel as much<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As giants when they die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if there is a bridal bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or bride of little worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's lying in a bed of mould,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along with Mother Earth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span> <span class="i0">"Alas! Some happy, happy day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In church I hoped to stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like a muff of sable skin<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Receive your lily hand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But sternly with that piebald match,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My fate untimely clashes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For now, like Pompey-double-i,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm sleeping in my ashes!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And now farewell! a last farewell!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm wanted down below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And have but time enough to add<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One word before I go—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In mourning crêpe and bombazine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ne'er spend your precious pelf;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Don't go in black for me—for I<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Can do it for myself.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Henceforth within my grave I rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Death, who there inherits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Allowed my spirit leave to come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You seemed so near your spirits:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But do not sigh, and do not cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By grief too much engrossed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor for a ghost of color turn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The color of a ghost!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Once more a last adieu!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I must make myself as scarce<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As swans of sable hue."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From black to gray, from gray to nought<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shape began to fade—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like an egg, though not so white,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ghost was newly laid!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE GHOST:</span> <span class="author">THOMAS HOOD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>A Very Serious Ballad</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Middle Row, some years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There lived one Mr. Brown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many folks considered him<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The stoutest man in town.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Brown and stout will both wear out—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One Friday he died hard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And left a widow'd wife to mourn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At twenty pence a yard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now widow B. in two short months<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thought mourning quite a tax;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To <i>manumit</i> her blacks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The thing came thus about:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She asked him in at home, and then<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At church, he asked her out!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Assurance such as this the man<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In ashes could not stand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So like a Phoenix he rose up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Against the Hand in Hand!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One dreary night the angry sprite<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Appeared before her view;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It came a little after one,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But she was after two!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are these your sorrow's deeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Already getting up a flame<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To burn your widows' weeds?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It's not so long since I have left<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For aye the mortal scene;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My memory—like Rogers's—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Should still be bound in green!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet if my face you still retrace<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I almost have a doubt—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With all the leaves torn out!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To think that on that finger-joint<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Another pledge should cling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Bess! upon my very soul<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A ton of marble on my breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Can't hinder my return;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A-boiling in its urn!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Remember, oh, remember how<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The marriage rite did run,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If ever we one flesh should be<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis now—when I have none!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of perjured faith convict,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As ghostly toe can give no blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Consider yourself kicked.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span> <span class="i0">"A hollow voice is all I have,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But this I tell you plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marry come up! you marry, ma'am,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I'll come up again."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">More he had said, but chanticleer<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spritely shade did shock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With sudden crow—and off he went<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like fowling piece at cock!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">MARY'S GHOST:</span> <span class="author">THOMAS HOOD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>A Pathetic Ballad</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas in the middle of the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sleep young William tried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Mary's ghost came stealing in,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And stood at his bedside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O William dear! O William dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My rest eternal ceases;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! my everlasting peace<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is broken into pieces.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I thought the last of all my cares<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would end with my last minute;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But though I went to my long home<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I didn't stay long in it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The body-snatchers they have come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And made a snatch at me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's very hard them kind of men<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Won't let a body be!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span> <span class="i0">"You thought that I was buried deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Quite decent-like and chary,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But from her grave, in Mary-Bone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They've come and boned your Mary.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The arm that used to take your arm<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is took to Doctor Vyse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And both my legs are gone to walk<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The hospital at Guy's.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I vowed that you should have my hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Fate gives us denial;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In spirits and a phial.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"As for my feet, the little feet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You used to find so pretty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The T'other's in the City.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I can't tell where my head is gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Doctor Carpue can;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As for my trunk, it's all packed up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To go by Pickford's van.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I wish you'd go to Mr. P.,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And save me such a ride;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I don't half like the outside place<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They've took for my inside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The cock it crows—I must be gone!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My William, we must part!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I'll be yours in death, altho'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sir Astley has my heart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span> <span class="i0">"Don't go to weep upon my grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And think that there I be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They haven't left an atom there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of my anatomie."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE SUPERSTITIOUS GHOST:</span> <span class="author">ARTHUR GUITERMAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I'm such a quiet little ghost,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Demure and inoffensive,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The other spirits say I'm most<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Absurdly apprehensive.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through all the merry hours of night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm uniformly cheerful;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love the dark; but in the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I own I'm rather fearful.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each dawn I cower down in bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In every brightness seeing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That weird uncanny form of dread—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An awful Human Being!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of course I'm told they can't exist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That Nature would not let them:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Willy Spook, the Humanist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Declares that he has met them!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He says they do not glide like us,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But walk in eerie paces;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They're solid, not diaphanous,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span> <span class="i0">And some are beggars, some are kings,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some have and some are wanting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They squander time in doing things,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Instead of simply haunting.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They talk of "art," the horrid crew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And things they call "ambitions."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, yes, I know as well as you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They're only superstitions.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But should the dreadful day arrive<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When, starting up, I see one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then—Oh, then I'll be one!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">DAVE LILLY:</span> <span class="author">JOYCE KILMER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span> <span class="i0">Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span> <span class="i0">It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And put some flowers on it—but this will be better for Dave.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">MARTIN:</span> <span class="author">JOYCE KILMER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I am tired of earnest men,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Intense and keen and sharp and clever,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pursuing fame with brush or pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or counting metal disks forever,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then from the halls of Shadowland,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beyond the trackless purple sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beside my desk and talk to me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Still on his delicate pale face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A quizzical thin smile is showing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A suit to match his soft grey hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A rakish stick, a knowing hat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A manner blithe and debonair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span> <span class="i0">How good that he who always knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That being lovely was a duty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should have gold halls to wander through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And should himself inhabit beauty.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How like his old unselfish way<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To leave those halls of splendid mirth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And comfort those condemned to stay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon the dull and sombre earth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some people ask: "What cruel chance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Made Martin's life so sad a story?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And wore an overcoat of glory.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fleck of sunlight in the street,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such visions made each moment sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For this receptive ancient child.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Because it was old Martin's lot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To be, not make, a decoration,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall we then scorn him, having not<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His genius of appreciation?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rich joy and love he got and gave;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His heart was merry as his dress;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who did not gain, but was, success!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HAUNTED_PLACES" id="HAUNTED_PLACES"></a>HAUNTED PLACES</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LISTENERS:</span> <span class="author">WALTER DE LA MARE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Knocking on the moonlit door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his horse in the silence champed the grasses<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the forest's ferny floor:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a bird flew up out of the turret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above the Traveller's head:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he smote upon the door again the second time;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Is there anybody there?" he said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no one descended to the Traveller;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No head from the leaf-fringed sill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where he stood perplexed and still.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But only the host of phantom listeners<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That dwelt in the lone house then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To that voice from the world of men:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That goes down to the empty hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the lonely Traveller's call:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he felt in his heart their strangeness,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their stillness answering his cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Neath the starred and leafy sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he suddenly smote upon the door, even<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Louder, and lifted his head:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Tell them I came and no one answered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I kept my word," he said.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span> +<span class="i0">Never the least stir made the listeners,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though every word he spake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the one man left awake:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the sound of iron on stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And how the silence surged softly backward,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the plunging hoofs were gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HAUNTED HOUSES:</span> <span class="author">HENRY W. LONGFELLOW</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All houses wherein men have lived and died<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are haunted houses. Through the open doors<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With feet that make no sound upon the floors.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the passages they come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Impalpable impressions on the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sense of something moving to and fro.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are more guests at table than the hosts<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Invited; the illuminated hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As silent as the pictures on the wall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The stranger at my fireside cannot see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He but perceives what is; while unto me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All that has been is visible and clear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span> <span class="i0">We have no title-deeds to house or lands;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Owners and occupants of earlier dates<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From graves forgotten stretch their hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And hold in mortmain still their old estates.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The spirit-world around this world of sense<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A vital breath of more ethereal air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our little lives are kept in equipoise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By opposite attractions and desires:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the more noble instinct that aspires.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These perturbations, this perpetual jar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of earthly wants and aspirations high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come from the influence of an unseen star,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An undiscovered planet in our sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Into the realm of mystery and night—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So from the world of spirits there descends,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A bridge of light, connecting it with this,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE BELEAGUERED CITY:</span> <span class="author">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have read in some old marvellous tale,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some legend strange and vague,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That a midnight host of spectres pale<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beleaguered the walls of Prague.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the wan moon overhead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stood, as in an awful dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The army of the dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White as a sea-fog, landward bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spectral band was seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with a sorrowful deep sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The river flowed between.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No other voice nor sound was there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No drum nor sentry's pace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mist-like banners clasped the air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As clouds with clouds embrace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when the old cathedral bell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Proclaimed the morning prayer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white pavilions rose and fell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the alarméd air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down the broad valley fast and far<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The troubled army fled:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up rose the glorious morning star,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ghastly host was dead.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have read in the marvellous heart of man,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That strange and mystic scroll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That an army of phantoms vast and wan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beleaguer the human soul.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Fancy's misty light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Portentous through the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upon its midnight battle-ground<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spectral camp is seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Flows the River of Life between.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No other voice nor sound is there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the army of the grave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No other challenge breaks the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the rushing of Life's wave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then the solemn and deep church-bell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Entreats the soul to pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The midnight phantoms feel the spell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shadows sweep away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down the broad Vale of Tears afar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The spectral camp is fled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faith shineth as a morning star,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our ghastly fears are dead.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">A NEWPORT ROMANCE:</span> <span class="author">BRET HARTE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They say that she died of a broken heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I tell the tale as 'twas told to me);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her spirit lives, and her soul is part<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of this sad old house by the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her lover was fickle and fine and French;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It was more than a hundred years ago<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he sailed away from her arms,—poor wench!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the Admiral Rochambeau.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I marvel much what periwigged phrase<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At what gold-laced speech of those modish days<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She listened,—the mischief take her!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But she kept the posies of mignonette<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And faded (though with her tears still wet)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her youth with their own exhaled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Round spar and spire and tarn and tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her soul went up on that lifted cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From this sad old house by the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And ever since then, when the clock strikes two,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She walks unbidden from room to room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the air is filled as she passes through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a subtle, sad perfume.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span> <span class="i0">The delicate odor of mignonette,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all that tells of her story; yet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could she think of a sweeter way?<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I sit in the sad old house to-night—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Myself a ghost from a farther sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I trust that this Quaker woman might,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In courtesy, visit me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the bugle died from the fort on the hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the grand piano is still.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there is no sound in the sad old house,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the long veranda dripping with dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And in the wainscot a mouse.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The light of my study-lamp streams out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the library door, but has gone astray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the Quakeress knows the way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With outward watching and inward fret?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I swear that the air just now was fraught<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the odor of mignonette!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I open the window and seem almost—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So still lies the ocean—to hear the beat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And to bask in its tropic heat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span> <span class="i0">In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I wonder now could I fit that air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the song of this sad old house.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And no odor of mignonette there is,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And maybe from causes as slight as this<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The quaint old legend was born.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the soul of that subtle sad perfume,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mummy laid in his rocky tomb,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Awakens my buried past.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I think of the passion that shook my youth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And am thankful now for the certain truth<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That only the sweet remains.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I see no face at my library door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She is viewless forevermore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But whether she came as a faint perfume,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or whether a spirit in stole of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She has been with my soul to-night.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">A LEGEND:</span> <span class="author">MAY KENDALL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ay, an old story, yet it might<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have truth in it—who knows?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the heroine's breaking down one night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Just ere the curtain rose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span> <span class="i0">And suddenly, when fear and doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had shaken every heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stepped an unknown actress out,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To take the heroine's part.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But oh, the magic of her face,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And oh the songs she sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oh the rapture of the place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And oh the flowers they flung!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But she never stooped: they lay all night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As when she turned away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And left them—and the saddest light<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shone in her eyes of grey.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She gave a smile in glancing round,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sighed, one fancied, then—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But never they knew where she was bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or saw her face again,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the old prompter, grey and frail,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They heard him murmur low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"It only could be Meg Coverdale,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Died thirty years ago,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In that old part, who took the town;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And she was fair, as fair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when they shut the coffin down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the gleam of her golden hair;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And it wasn't hard to understand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How a lass as fair as she<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could never rest in the Promised Land,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where none but angels be."<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">A MIDNIGHT VISITOR:</span> <span class="author">ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After all the house is dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the last soft step is still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Flickers on the window sill—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the village lights are out,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the watch-dogs all asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the misty silver radiance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Makes the shade look black and deep—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When, so silent is the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not a dead leaf dares to fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I only hear the death-watch<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ticking, ticking in the wall—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When no hidden mouse dares gnaw<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the silence dead and dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the very air seems waiting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a Something that should come—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Suddenly, there stands my guest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whence he came I cannot see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not a door has swung before him,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not a hand touched latch or key,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a rustle stirred the air;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet he stands there, brave and mute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his eyes a look of greeting,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In his hand an old-time flute.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span> <span class="i0">Then, with all the courtly grace<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the old Colonial school,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the curtain-shadowed corner<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Forth he draws a three-legged stool—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Ah, it was not there before!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Search as closely as I may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I can never, never find it<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When I look for it by day!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Places it beside my bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And while silently I gaze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spell-bound by his mystic presence,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seats himself thereon and plays.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gracious, stately, grave and tall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Always dressed from crown to toe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the quaint elaborate fashion<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a hundred years ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wears my midnight melodist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snowy ruffles in his bosom,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Snowy ruffles at his wrist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silver buckle at his knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Silver buckle on his shoe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a stiff old-fashioned queue.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If I stir he vanishes;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If I speak he flits away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I lie in utter silence,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He will sit for hours and play;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Play old wailing minor airs,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Melancholy, wild and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a hundred years ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All in vain I wait to hear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ghostly histories of wrong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unconfessed and unforgiven,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unavenged and suffered long;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a story does he tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not a single word he says—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only sits and gazes at me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Steadily, and plays and plays.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who is he, my midnight guest?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wherefore does he haunt me so;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coming from the misty shadows<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a hundred years ago?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HAUNTED:</span> <span class="author">AMY LOWELL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See! He trails his toes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the long streaks of moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the nails of his fingers glitter;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They claw and flash among the tree-tops.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His lips suck at my open window,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his breath creeps about my body<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lies in pools under my knees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I can see his mouth sway and wobble,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sticking itself against the window-jambs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the moonlight is bright on the floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without a shadow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD:</span> <span class="author">WALTER DE LA MARE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some one is always sitting there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Even when the sun is high<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In noon's unclouded sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And faintly droning goes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The bee from rose to rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some one in shadow is sitting there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, and when twilight's falling softly<br /></span> +<span class="i8">On the little green orchard;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the gray dew distils<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And every flower cup fills;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the last blackbird says,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"What—what!" and goes her way—ssh!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have heard voices calling softly<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not that I am afraid of being there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why, when the moon's been bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shedding her lonesome light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And moths like ghosties come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the horned snail leaves home:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've stayed there, whispering and listening there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only it's strange to be feeling there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whether you paint or draw,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dig, hammer, chop or saw,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span> +<span class="i0">When you are most alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All but the silence gone ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some one is waiting and watching there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the little green orchard.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">FIREFLIES:</span> <span class="author">LOUISE DRISCOLL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What are you, fireflies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That come as daylight dies?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are you the old, old dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Creeping through the long grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see the green leaves move<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And feel the light wind pass?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The larkspur in my garden<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is a sea of rose and blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white moth is a ghost ship<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drifting through.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The shadows fall like lilacs<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Raining from a garden sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pollen laden bees go home,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bird songs die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The honeysuckle breaks a flask,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a breeze, on pleasure bent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Catches in her little hands<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sharp scent.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the darkness and the dew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come the little, flying flames,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are they the forgotten dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Without names?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span> <span class="i0">Did they love the leaves and wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grass and gardens long ago<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a love that draws them home<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where things grow?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For an hour with green leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Love immortal leaped to flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the earth into the night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Old hearts came.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What are you, fireflies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That come as daylight dies?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE LITTLE GHOST:</span> <span class="author">EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I knew her for a little ghost<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That in my garden walked;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wall is high—higher than most—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the green gate was locked.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet I did not think of that<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till after she was gone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I knew her by the broad white hat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All ruffled, she had on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By the dear ruffles round her feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By her small hands that hung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her gown's white folds among.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I watched to see if she would stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What she would do—and oh!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She looked as if she liked the way<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I let my garden grow!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span> <span class="i0">She bent above my favorite mint<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With conscious garden grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She smiled and smiled—there was no hint<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of sadness in her face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She held her gown on either side<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To let her slippers show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And up the walk she went with pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The way great ladies go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And where the wall is built in new<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And is of ivy bare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She paused—then opened and passed through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A gate that once was there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HAUNTED:</span> <span class="author">LOUIS UNTERMEYER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Between the moss and stone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lonely lilies rise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wasted and overgrown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The tangled garden lies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weeds climb about the stoop<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And clutch the crumbling walls;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The drowsy grasses droop—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The night wind falls.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The place is like a wood;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No sign is there to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where rose and iris stood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That once she loved so well.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where phlox and asters grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A leafless thornbush stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shrubs that never knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her tender hands....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span> <span class="i0">Over the broken fence<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The moonbeams trail their shrouds;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their tattered cerements<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cling to the gauzy clouds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ribbons frayed and thin—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And startled by the light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silence shrinks deeper in<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The depths of night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Useless lie spades and rakes;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rust's on the garden-tools.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, where the moonlight makes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nebulous silver pools<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A ghostly shape is cast—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Something unseen has stirred....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was it a breeze that passed?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was it a bird?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dead roses lift their heads<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out of a grassy tomb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From ruined pansy-beds<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A thousand pansies bloom.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gate is opened wide—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The garden that has been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now blossoms like a bride....<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Who entered in?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">GHOSTS:</span> <span class="author">MADISON CAWEIN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The sea-mists swoon:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Goes winging slow:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span> +<span class="i0">Dim fields the sower never sows,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or reaps or mows:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And near the sea a ghostly house of stone<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Where all is old and lone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A garden, falling in decay,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Where statues gray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peer, broken, out of tangled weed<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And thorny seed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Satyr and Nymph, that once made love<br /></span> +<span class="i6">By walk and grove:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A sundial, lichen-old.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like some sad life bereft,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To musing left,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The house stands: love and youth<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Both gone, in sooth:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still it sits and dreams:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And round it seems<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some memory of the past, still young and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Haunting each crumbling stair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And suddenly one dimly sees,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Come through the trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A woman, like a wild moss-rose:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A man, who goes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Softly: and by the dial<br /></span> +<span class="i6">They kiss a while:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And they like ghosts are gone.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span></p> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE THREE GHOSTS:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The three ghosts on the lonely road,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spake each to one another,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Whence came that stain upon your mouth<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No lifted hand can cover?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"From eating of forbidden fruit,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Brother, my brother."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The three ghosts on the sunless road,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spake each to one another,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Whence came that red burn on your foot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No dust or ash may cover?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Brother, my brother."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The three ghosts on the windless road,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spake each to one another,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Whence came that blood upon thy hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No other hand may cover?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"From breaking of a woman's heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Brother, my brother."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet on the earth, clean men we walked,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Glutton and thief and lover,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">White flesh and fair, it hid our stains,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That no man might discover,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naked the soul goes up to God,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Brother, my brother.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="YOU_KNOW_THE_OLD_WHILE" id="YOU_KNOW_THE_OLD_WHILE"></a>"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">AFTER DEATH:</span> <span class="author">CHRISTINA ROSSETTI</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He leaned above me, thinking that I slept<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And could not hear him; but I heard him say,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">"Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That hid my face, or take my hand in his,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">He did not love me living; but once dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He pitied me; and very sweet it is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To know he still is warm though I am cold.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE PASSER-BY:</span> <span class="author">EDITH M. THOMAS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Step lightly across the floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And somewhat more tender be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">There were many that passed my door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Many that sought after me.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I gave them the passing word—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, why did I give thee more?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I gave thee what could not be heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What had not been given before;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The beat of my heart I gave....<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I give thee this flower on my grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My face in the flower thou mayst see.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Step lightly across the floor.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">AT HOME:</span> <span class="author">CHRISTINA ROSSETTI</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I was dead, my spirit turned<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To seek the much-frequented house.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I passed the door, and saw my friends<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From hand to hand they pushed the wine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They sang, they jested, and they laughed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For each was loved of each.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I listened to their honest chat.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said one, "To-morrow we shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plod-plod along the featureless sands,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And coasting miles and miles of sea."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said one, "Before the turn of tide<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We will achieve the eyrie-seat."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said one, "To-morrow shall be like<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To-day, but much more sweet."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And dwelt upon the pleasant way:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"To-morrow," cried they one and all,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While no one spoke of yesterday.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their life stood full at blessed noon;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I, only I had passed away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I was of yesterday.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shivered comfortless, but cast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No chill across the tablecloth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To stay and yet to part how loth:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span> +<span class="i0">I passed from the familiar room,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I whom from love had passed away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the remembrance of a guest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That tarrieth but a day.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE RETURN:</span> <span class="author">MINNA IRVING</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I pushed the tangled grass away<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And lifted up the stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And flitted down the churchyard path<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With grasses overgrown.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I halted at my mother's door<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shook the rusty catch—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The wind is rising fast," she said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"It rattles at the latch."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I crossed the street and paused again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before my husband's house,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My baby sat upon his knee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As quiet as a mouse.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I pulled the muslin curtain by,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He rose the blinds to draw—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I feel a draught upon my back,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The night is cold and raw."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I met a man who loved me well<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In days ere I was wed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He did not hear, he did not see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So silently I fled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when I found my poor old dog,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though blind and deaf was he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And feeble with his many years,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He turned and followed me.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE ROOM'S WIDTH:</span> <span class="author">ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I think if I should cross the room,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Far as fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should stand beside you like a thought—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Touch you, dear,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like a fancy—to your sad heart<br /></span> +<span class="i6">It would seem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That my vision passed and prayed you,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or my dream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then you would look with lonely eyes—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Lift your head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you would stir and sigh, and say,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">"She is dead."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Baffled by death and love, I lean<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Through the gloom.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Lord of life! Am I forbid<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To cross the room?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HAUNTED:</span> <span class="author">DON MARQUIS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then why do you start and shiver so?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But it sounds like another noise we know!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The heavy drops drummed red and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The drops ran down as slow as fate—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Do ye hear them still?—it was long ago!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span> <span class="i0">Spirits there be that pass in peace;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the hour that your choking breath shall cease<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I will get my grip on your naked soul—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why did ye falter and look behind?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Drink and forget, make merry and boast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the boast rings false and the jest is thin—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="MY_LOVE_THAT_WAS_SO_TRUE" id="MY_LOVE_THAT_WAS_SO_TRUE"></a>"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">ONE OUT-OF-DOORS:</span> <span class="author">SARAH PIATT</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A ghost—is he afraid to be a ghost?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A ghost? It breaks my heart to think of it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something that wavers in the moon, at most;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Something that wanders: something that must flit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From morning, from the bird's breath and the dew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, if I knew,—ah, if I only knew!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follow it with your kisses, if you will;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O beating heart, think of its helpless hush.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something that was so near, that was so dear!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No—no, he is no ghost; he could not be;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something shut outside in the dark, while we<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Laugh and forget by the familiar fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">SAILING BEYOND SEAS:</span> <span class="author">JEAN INGELOW</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Methought the stars were blinking bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the old brig's sail unfurl'd;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I said, "I will sail to my love this night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the other side of the world."<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span> +<span class="i0">I stepp'd abroad,—we sail'd so fast,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sun shot up from the bourn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But a dove that perch'd upon the mast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did mourn and mourn and mourn.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">O fair dove! O fond dove!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And dove with the white, white breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Let me alone, the dream is my own,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And my heart is full of rest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My true love fares on this great hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Feeding his sheep for aye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I look'd in his hut, but all was still,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My love was gone away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I went to gaze in the forest creek,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the dove mourn'd on apace;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rose up to show me his place.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">O last love! O first love!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My love with the true, true heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">To think I have come to this your home,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And yet—we are apart!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My love! He stood at my right hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His eyes were grave and sweet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methought he said, "In this far land,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O, is it thus we meet?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I have no place,—no part,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No dwelling more by sea or shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But only in thy heart."<br /></span> +<span class="i3">O fair dove! O fond dove!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Till night rose over the bourn,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Did mourn and mourn and mourn.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span></p> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">BETRAYAL:</span> <span class="author">ALINE KILMER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Four hundred times the glass had run<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And seven times the moon had died<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since my lover rode in his silver mail<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away from his new-made bride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When out of the mist my own true love<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Came up and stood by me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart leapt up that had been still,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My voice rang out that had been sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till my sister left her busy wheel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To see what made me glad.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She saw my arms about his neck,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She saw my head upon his breast.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, why did my sister hate me so<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That she would not let me rest?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Loud then laughed my cruel sister,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">False and fair of face was she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O that is never your own true love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For he lies dead in a far countrie!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his shining face grew still and white;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My tears ran down like bitter rain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As I watched him fade from sight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span> <span class="i0">May the salt sea bury me in its waves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May the mountains fall and cover my head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since I had not faith in my only love<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When he came back from the dead.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE TRUE LOVER:</span> <span class="author">A. E. HOUSMAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lad came to the door at night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When lovers crown their vows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whistled soft and out of sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In shadow of the boughs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I shall not vex you with my face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Henceforth, my love, for aye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So take me in your arms a space<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before the east is gray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"When I from hence away am past<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I shall not find a bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you shall be the first and last<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I ever lay beside."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She heard and went and knew not why;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her heart to his she laid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Light was the air beneath the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But dark under the shade.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seems not to rise and fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here upon my bosom prest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There beats no heart at all?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You should have felt it then;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But since for you I stopped the clock<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It never goes again."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wet from your neck on mine?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What is it falling on my lips,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My lad, that tastes like brine?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For when the knife has slit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The throat across from ear to ear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twill bleed because of it."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under the stars the air was light<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But dark below the boughs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The still air of the speechless night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When lovers crown their vows.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HAUNTED:</span> <span class="author">G. B. STUART</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When candle-flames burn blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Between the night and morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know that it is you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My love, that was so true,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that I killed with scorning.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The watch-dogs howl and bay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I pale, and leave off smiling.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only the other day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I held your heart in play<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Intent upon beguiling.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span> <span class="i0">A little while ago<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wrung your soul with sighing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or brought a sudden glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into your cheek by low<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft answers, in replying.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My life was all disguise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mask of feints and fancies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I used to lift my eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take you by surprise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With smiles and upward glances.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now, where'er I go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your sad ghost follows after;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blue the flame burns low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And doors creak to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And silent grows the laughter.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE WHITE MOTH:</span> <span class="author">SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If a leaf rustled she would start:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And yet she died, a year ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How had so frail a thing the heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To journey where she trembled so?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And do they turn and turn in fright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Those little feet, in so much night?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The light above the poet's head<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Streamed on the page and on the cloth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And twice and thrice there buffeted<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the black pane a white-winged moth:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, "Open, open, open!" cried.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span> <span class="i0">"I could not find the way to God;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There were too many flaming suns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For signposts, and the fearful road<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Led over wastes where millions<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of flaming comets hissed and burned—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I was bewildered and I turned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O, it was easy then! I knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your window, and no star beside.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look up and take me back to you!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He rose and thrust the window wide.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas but because his brain was hot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With rhyming; for he saw her not.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But poets polishing a phrase<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Show anger over trivial things:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as she blundered in the blaze<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Towards him, on ecstatic wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He raised a hand and smote her dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE GHOST:</span> <span class="author">WALTER DE LA MARE</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond all dreams to restore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And knock on the door."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who speaks?" "I,—once was my speech<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet as the bird's on the air.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When echo lurks by the waters to heed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis I speak thee fair."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span> <span class="i0">"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Long dead these to thine...."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silence. Still faint on the porch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brake the flames of the stars.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over keys, bolts and bars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A face peered. All the grey night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In chaos of vacancy shone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nought but vast Sorrow was there—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet cheat gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">LUKE HAVERGAL:</span> <span class="author">EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the twilight wait for what will come.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But go, and if you trust her she will call.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Luke Havergal.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there where western glooms are gathering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dark will end the dark, if anything:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hell is more than half of paradise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In eastern skies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span> <span class="i0">Out of the grave I come to tell you this,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That flames upon your forehead with a glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That blinds you to the way that you must go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the grave I come to tell you this,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell you this.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go,—for the winds are tearing them away,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor any more to feel them as they fall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But go! and if you trust her she will call.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Luke Havergal.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE HIGHWAYMAN:</span> <span class="author">ALFRED NOYES</span> +</div> + +<p class="secgap author">1</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the highwayman came riding—<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Riding—riding—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">2</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span> +<span class="i0">They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">His pistol butts a-twinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">3</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Bess, the landlord's daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">4</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he loved the landlord's daughter;<br /></span> +<span class="i16">The landlord's red-lipped daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">5</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span> +<span class="i0">Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then look for me by moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Watch for me by moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">6</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">PART TWO</p> + +<p class="secgap author">1</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A red-coat troop came marching—<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Marching—marching—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">2</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span> +<span class="i0">Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was death at every window;<br /></span> +<span class="i16">And Hell at one dark window;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that <i>he</i> would ride.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">3</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.<br /></span> +<span class="i16">She heard the dead man say—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Look for me by moonlight;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Watch for me by moonlight;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">4</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Cold, on the stroke of midnight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">5</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span> +<span class="i0">She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the road lay bare in the moonlight;<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Blank and bare in the moonlight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">6</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!</i> Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot</i> in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The highwayman came riding,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Riding, riding!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">7</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Tlot-tlot</i>, in the frosty silence! <i>Tlot-tlot</i> in the echoing night!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then her finger moved in the moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Her musket shattered the moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">8</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span> +<span class="i0">Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How Bess, the landlord's daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">The landlord's black-eyed daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">9</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they shot him down on the highway,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Down like a dog on the highway,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A highwayman comes riding—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Riding—riding—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">10</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;</i><br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span> +<span class="i0"><i>He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Bess, the landlord's daughter,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE BLUE CLOSET:</span> <span class="author">WILLIAM MORRIS</span> +</div> + +<p class="secgap author">THE DAMOZELS</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lady Alice, Lady Louise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Between the wash of the tumbling seas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We are ready to sing, if so you please;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So lay your long hands on the keys;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Sing "<i>Laudate pueri.</i>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And ever the great bell overhead</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">LADY LOUISE</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sister, let the measure swell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not too loud; for you sing not well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If you drown the faint boom of the bell;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He is weary, so am I.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And ever the chevron overhead</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<i>Was he asleep, or was he dead?</i>)<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">LADY ALICE</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two damozels wearing purple and green,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span> +<span class="i0">Four lone ladies dwelling here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From day to day and year to year;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there is none to let us go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To break the locks of the doors below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when we die no man will know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we are dead; but they give us leave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once every year on Christmas-eve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sing in the Closet Blue one song:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we should be so long, so long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They float on in a happy stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Float from the open'd lips of Louise:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And ever the great bell overhead</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How long ago was it, how long ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He came to this tower with hands full of snow?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am so feeble now, would I might die."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And in truth the great bell overhead</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Left off pealing for the dead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Perchance because the wind was—dead.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Will he come back again or is he dead?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or did they strangle him as he lay there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Through the floor shot up a lily red,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For he was strong in the land of the dead.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What matter that his cheeks were pale,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His kind kiss'd lips all gray?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O love Louise, have you waited long?"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"O my Lord Arthur, yea."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What if his hair that brush'd her cheek<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was stiff with frozen rime?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His eyes were grown quite blue again.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As in the happy time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span> <span class="i0">"O, love Louise, this is the key<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the happy golden land!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My eyes are full of sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What matter that I cannot see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If ye take me by the hand?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>And ever the great bell overhead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And the tumbling sea mourned for the dead;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For their song ceased, and they were dead.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE GHOST'S PETITION:</span> <span class="author">CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's a footstep coming; look out and see."—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No one cometh across the lea."—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's a footstep coming; O sister, look."—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No one cometh across the brook."—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But he promised that he would come:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He must keep his word, and must come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"For he promised that he would come;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His word was given; from earth to heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He must keep his word, and must come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You can slumber, who need not number<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span> <span class="i0">"I shall sit here awhile and watch;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Listening, hoping for one hand groping,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In deep shadow, to find the latch."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After the dark and before the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One lay sleeping, and one sat weeping,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who had watched and wept the weary night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After the night and before the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watching, weeping for one away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There came a footstep climbing the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some one standing out on the landing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shook the door like a puff of air.—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shook the door and in he passed.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did he enter? In the room center<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood her husband; the door shut fast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Robin, but you are cold—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look like a stray lamb from our fold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Robin, but you are late:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me."—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lay not down your head on my breast:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the shelter that you love best.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Feel not after my clasping hand:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am but a shadow, come from the meadow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where many lie, but no tree can stand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span> <span class="i0">"We are trees that have shed their leaves:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I could rest if you would not moan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hour after hour; I have no power<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To shut my ears as I lie alone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I could rest if you would not cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watching, weeping so bitterly."—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Woe's me! Woe's me! For this I have heard.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Oh night of sorrow—oh, black to-morrow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it thus that you keep your word?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, you who used so to shelter me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, my husband of flesh and blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For whom my mother I left, and brother,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all I had, accounting it good,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What do you do there, under the ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What do you do there? What have you found?"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What I do there I must not tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But I have plenty—kind wife, content ye:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is well with us: it is well.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tender hand hath made our nest;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our fear is ended; our hope is blended<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With present pleasure, and we have rest."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If your present days are so pleasant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my days are so wearisome.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why should I tease you, who cannot please you<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any more with the pains I take?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">HE AND SHE:</span> <span class="author">SIR EDWIN ARNOLD</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On her forehead of stone they laid it fair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over her eyes that gazed too much<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They drew the lids with a gentle touch;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a tender touch they closed up well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Above her brows and beautiful face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They tied her veil and her marriage lace,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which were the whitest no eye could choose,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And over her bosom they crossed her hands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Come away," they said, "God understands."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And there was silence, and nothing there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But silence and scents of eglantere,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And jasmine, and roses and rosemary,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And they held their breath till they left the room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he who loved her too well to dread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He lit his lamp, and he took the key<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And turned it—alone again, he and she.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He and she; but she would not speak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He and she; yet she would not smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He and she; still she did not move<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To any passionate whisper of love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there no voice or language of death,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to heart and soul distinct, intense?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What is the secret of dying, dear?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Was it the infinite wonder of all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That you ever could let life's flower fall?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Or was it a greater marvel to feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span> <span class="i0">"Was the miracle greater to find how deep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Did life roll back its record, dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And show, as they say it does, past things clear?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find out so, what a wisdom love is?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O perfect dead! O dead most dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hold the breath of my soul to hear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I listen as deep as to terrible hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make you so placid, from head to feet!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The very strangest and suddenest thing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all the surprises that dying must bring."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though he told me, who will believe it was said?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who will believe that he heard her say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The utmost wonder is this—I hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And am your angel, who was your bride.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And know, that though dead, I have never died."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SHAPES_OF_DOOM" id="SHAPES_OF_DOOM"></a>SHAPES OF DOOM</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE DEAD COACH:</span> <span class="author">KATHERINE TYNAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At night when sick folk wakeful lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the dead coach passing by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard it passing wild and fleet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And knew my time had come not yet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who takes the dead coach travels fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On and away through the wild night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead must rest ere morning light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If one might follow on its track,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The coach and horses midnight black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within should sit a shape of doom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That beckons one and all to come.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">God pity them to-night who wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hear the dead coach at their gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And him who hears, though sense be dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mournful dead coach stop for him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He shall go down with a still face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mount the steps and take his place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The door be shut, the order said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How fast the pace is with the dead!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead coach climbs the distant hill.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, God, the Father of us all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">DEID FOLK'S FERRY:</span> <span class="author">ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis They, of a veritie—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They are calling thin an' shrill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We maun rise an' put to sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We maun gi'e the deid their will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We maun ferry them owre the faem,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For they draw us as they list;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We maun bear the deid folk hame<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But how can I gang the nicht,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When I'm new come hame frae sea?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When my heart is sair for the sicht<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O' my lass that langs for me?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O your lassie lies asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' sae do your bairnes twa;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cliff-path's stey and steep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O sae hooly steppit we,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the nicht was mirk an' lown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' never a sign to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the voices all aroun'.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We laid to the saut sea-shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she micht hae dipped wi' a score,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' our ain three sel's beside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O the boat she settled low,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till her gunwale kissed the faem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' she didna loup nor row<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As she bare the deid folk hame;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span> +<span class="i0">But she aye gaed swift an' licht,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' we naething saw nor wist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was never a sign to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But a misty shore an' low;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never a word spak' we,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the boat she lichtened slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' a cauld hand touched my wrist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' my heart sank cauld and sair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the wind raise up wi' a maen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a deid saul wud wi' pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a bairnie wild wi' freit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the boat rade swift an' licht,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sae we wan the land fu' sune,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' the shore showed wan an' white<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By a glint o' the waning mune.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We steppit oot owre the sand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where an unco' tide had been,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' Black Donald caught my hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' coverit up his een:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For there, in the wind an' weet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or ever I saw nor wist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An' it's O for my bonny Jean!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' it's O for my bairnies twa,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's O an' O for the watchet een<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' the steps that are gane awa'—<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span> +<span class="i0">Awa' to the Silent Place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or ever I saw nor wist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though I wot we twa went face to face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">KEITH OF RAVELSTON:</span> <span class="author">SYDNEY DOBELL</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The murmur of the mourning ghost<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That keeps the shadowy kine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sorrows of thy line!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ravelston, Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The stile beneath the tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maid that kept her mother's kine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The song that sang she!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She sang her song, she kept her kine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sat beneath the thorn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Andrew Keith of Ravelston<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rode through the Monday morn;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His belted jewels shine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, Keith of Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sorrows of thy line!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Year after year, where Andrew came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Comes evening down the glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And still there sits a moonshine ghost<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where sat the sunshine maid.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her misty hair is faint and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She keeps the shadowy kine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, Keith of Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sorrows of thy line!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I lay my hands upon the stile,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The stile is lone and cold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The burnie that goes babbling by<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Says naught that can be told.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet, stranger! here from year to year,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She keeps her shadowy kine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, Keith of Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sorrows of thy line!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Step out three steps where Andrew stood,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ancient stile is not alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis not the burn I hear!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She makes her immemorial moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She keeps her shadowy kine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, Keith of Ravelston,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sorrows of thy line!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE FETCH:</span> <span class="author">DORA SIGERSON SHORTER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What makes you so late at the tryst,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What caused you so long to be?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have waited a weary time<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the hour you promised me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, glad were I here by your side,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Full many an hour ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But for what there passed on the road<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All so mournfully and so slow."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And what have you met on the road<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That kept you so long and so late?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O full many an hour has gone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since I left my father's gate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"As I hastened on in the gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the road to you tonight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I passed the corpse of a young maid<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All clad in a shroud of white."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And was she some friend once cherished,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or was she a sister dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That you left your own true lover<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till the trysting hour had sped?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I could not see who it might be,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her face was hidden away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I had to turn and follow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wherever her resting lay."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And did it go up by the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or went it down by the lake?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know there are but two church yards<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where a corpse its rest may take."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"They did not go by the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor by the lake stayed their feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But buried the corpse all silently<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the four cross roads meet."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span> <span class="i0">"And was it so strange a sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That you should go like a child<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus to leave me to wait, forgotten,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By a passing sight beguiled?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, I heard them whisper my name,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each mourner that passed by me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I had to follow their path,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though their faces I could not see."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And right well I would like to know<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who this fair young maid might be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So take my hand, my own true love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And hasten along with me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He did not go down by the lake<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He did not go by the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But carried her to the four cross roads,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there he did set her down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now I see no track of a foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I see no mark of a spade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I know well in this white road<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There never a grave was made."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He took her hand in his right hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he led her to town away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there he questioned the old priest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did he bury a maid that day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He took her hand in his right hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Down to the church by the lake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there he questioned a young priest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If a maiden her life did take.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span> <span class="i0">But there was no tale of death<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In all the parish round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And neither had heard of a maid<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thus put in unholy ground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He loosed her hand from his hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And turned on his heel away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I know you are false," he said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"From the lie you told today."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she said, "Oh, what evil things<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did tonight my senses take?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She knelt down by the water side<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And wept as her heart would break.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she said, "Oh, what fairy sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was it thus my grief to see!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll sleep well 'neath the still water,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since my love has turned on me."<br /></span> +</div> +<hr style="text-align: left; margin: 0 auto 0 0;" /> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And her love he went to the north,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And far to the south went he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still he heard her distant voice<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Call, weeping so bitterly.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He could not rest in the daytime,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He could not sleep in the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hastened back to the old road,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the trysting-place in sight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What first he heard was his love's name,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And keening both loud and long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What first he saw was his love's face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the head of a mourning throng.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span> <span class="i0">And white she was as the dead are,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never a move made she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But passed him by on her black pall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still sleeping so peacefully.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And cold she was as the dead are,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never a word she spake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they said, "Unholy is her grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since she her life did take."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silent she was, as the dead are,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never a cry she made<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When there came, more sad than the keening,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ring of a digging spade.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No rest they gave in the town church,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No grave by the lake so sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But buried her in unholy ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the four cross roads do meet.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE BANSHEE:</span> <span class="author">DORA SIGERSON SHORTER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">God be between us and all harm,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For I to-night have seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A banshee in the shadow pass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the dark boreen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as she went she keened and cried,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And combed her long white hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She stopped at Molly Reilly's door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sobbed till midnight there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span> <span class="i0">And is it for himself she moans,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who is so far away?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it Molly Reilly's death<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She cries until the day?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now Molly thinks her man has gone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sailor lad to be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She puts a candle at her door<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each night for him to see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he is off to Galway town,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(And who dare tell her this?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enchanted by a woman's eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Half-maddened by her kiss.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So as we go by Molly's door<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We look towards the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say, "May God bring home your lad<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wherever he may be."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I pray it may be Molly's self<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The banshee keens and cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For who dare breathe the tale to her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be it her man who dies?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But there is sorrow on the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For I tonight have seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A banshee in the shadow pass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the dark boreen.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE SEVEN WHISTLERS:</span> <span class="author">ALICE E. GILLINGTON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining whisht and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the gore-sprent sundews thrive<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With oozy hands alive.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span> +<span class="i2">"I rise in the shallows," 'a saith,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Where the mermaid's kettle sings,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the black shag flaps his wings!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "Heva!" in the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And ye hoist the mainsail brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As over the deep-sea roll<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lurker follows the shoal;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span> +<span class="i0">The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling whisht and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the moor-grass sways to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness wild and drear,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE VICTOR:</span> <span class="author">THEODOSIA GARRISON</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>The live man victorious</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Rode spurring from the fight;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>In a glad voice and glorious</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He sang of his delight,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And dead men three, foot-loose and free,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Came after in the night.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And one laid hand on his bridle-rein—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Swift as the steed he sped—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O, ride you fast, yet at the last,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hate faster rides," he said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My sons shall know their father's foe<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One day when blades are red."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like touch o' driven mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"For joy you slew ere joy I knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For one girl's mouth unkissed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At your board's head, at mass, at bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My pale ghost shall persist."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span> <span class="i0">And one laid hands on his own two hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"O Brother o' mine," quoth he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What can I give to you who live<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like gift you gave to me?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since from grief and strife and ache o' life<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your sword-stroke set me free."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>The live man victorious</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Rode spurring from the fight;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>In a glad voice and glorious</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He sang of his delight,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And dead men three, foot-loose and free,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Came after in the night.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">MAWGAN OF MELHUACH:</span> <span class="author">ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had heard strange voices amid the roar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Out with the boat there," someone cried,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Will he never come? We shall lose the tide:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His berth is trim and his cabin stored,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He's a weary long time coming aboard."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The old man struggled upon the bed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He knew the words that the voices said;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span> <span class="i0">Hark yet again to the devilish roar!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"He was nimbler once with a ship on shore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We must make the offing by break of day."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hard was the struggle, but at the last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And away, away, beneath their sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE MOTHER'S GHOST:</span> <span class="author">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>I myself was young.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">There he has wooed him so winsome a maid;<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Fair words gladden so many a heart.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Together were they for seven years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And together children six were theirs;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then came Death abroad through the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And again hath he wooed him another maid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she was bitter and full of pride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When she came driving into the yard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stood the six children weeping so hard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span> <span class="i0">There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From before her feet she thrust them apart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She gave to them neither ale nor bread;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She took from them their quilts of blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And said, "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She took from them the great wax light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the evning late they cried with cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mother heard it under the mould.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The woman heard it in the earth below:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"To my little children I must go."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She standeth before the Lord of all:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"And may I go to my children small?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She prayed Him so long and would not cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until He bade her depart in peace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"At cock-crow thou shalt return again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Longer thou shalt not there remain!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She girded up her sorrowful bones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rifted the walls and the marble stones.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As through the village she flitted by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span> <span class="i0">When she came to the castle gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stood her eldest daughter in wait.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Never art thou mother of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my mother was both fair and fine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My mother was white, with cheeks of red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thou art pale and like to the dead."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"How should I be fair and fine?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"How should I be white and red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So long, so long have I been dead?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When she came in at the chamber door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stood the small children weeping sore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One she braided and one she brushed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The fifth she took on her lap and pressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if she would suckle it at her breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then to her eldest daughter said she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into the chamber when he came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She spake to him in anger and shame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I left behind me both ale and bread;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My children hunger and are not fed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span> <span class="i0">"I left behind me the quilts of blue;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My children lie on the straw ye strew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I left behind me the great wax light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My children lie in the dark at night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"If I come again into your hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As cruel a fate shall you befall!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now crows the cock with feathers red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back to the earth must all the dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now crows the cock with feathers swart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gates of heaven fly wide apart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now crows the cock with feathers white;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I can abide no longer to-night."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They gave the children bread and ale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They feared lest the dead were on their way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark,<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>I myself was young.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">They feared the dead out there in the dark.<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Fair words gladden so many a heart.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE DEAD MOTHER:</span> <span class="author">ROBERT BUCHANAN</span> +</div> + +<p class="secgap author">1</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the grass as I lay so deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As I lay asleep in my cotton serk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span> +<span class="i0">I waken'd up in the dead of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I waken'd up in my death-serk white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I heard a cry from far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I knew the voice of my daughter May:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Mother, Mother, come hither to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mother, Mother, come hither and see!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mother, Mother, Mother dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Another Mother is sitting here:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My body is bruised and in pain I cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On straw in the dark afraid I lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I thirst and hunger for drink and meat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Mother, Mother, to sleep were sweet!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the cry, though my grave was deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">2</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up I rose from my grave so deep!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth was black, but overhead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stars were yellow, the moon was red;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I walk'd along all white and thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lifted the latch and enter'd in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reached the chamber as dark as night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And though it was dark, my face was white:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Mother, Mother, I look on thee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mother, Mother, you frighten me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I smiled and kissed her fears away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on my knee I rocked her long:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O Mother, Mother, sing low to me—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I kissed her, but I could not weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she went to sleep, and she went to sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">3<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My May and I, in our grave so deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I waken'd up in the dead of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though May my daughter lay warm and white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I heard the cry of a little one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Mother, Mother, come hither to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mother, Mother, come hither and see!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mother, Mother, Mother dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Another Mother is sitting here:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My body is bruised and my heart is sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I speak my mind and call them bad;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I thirst and hunger night and day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And were I strong I would fly away!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the cry, though my grave was deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">4</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up I rose from my grave so deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth was black, but overhead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stars were yellow, the moon was red;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I walk'd along all white and thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lifted the latch and enter'd in.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Mother, Mother, and art thou here?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know your face and I feel no fear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raise me, Mother, and kiss my cheek,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For oh I am weary and sore and weak."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span> +<span class="i0">I raised and held him on my breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sang him a song, and bade him rest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Mother, Mother, sing low to me—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am sleepy now and I cannot see!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I kissed him and I could not weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">5</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With my girl and boy in my grave so deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awoke, but awoke not my children dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I heard a cry so low and weak<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From a tiny voice that could not speak;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the cry of a little one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My bairn that could neither talk nor run,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My little, little one, uncaress'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Starving for lack of the milk of the breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I rose from sleep and enter'd in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And found my little one, pinch'd and thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And put its lips to my white breast-bone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the red, red moon that lit the place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went white to look at the little face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I kiss'd and kiss'd and I could not weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">6</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I set it down in the darkness deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drew the curtains round about;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then into the dark, dark room I hied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where he lay awake at the woman's side,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span> +<span class="i0">And though the chamber was black as night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He saw my face, for it was so white;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I knew he would never sleep again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And back to my grave went silently,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soon my baby was brought to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My son and daughter beside me rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My little baby is on my breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our bed is warm and our grave is deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="LEGENDS_AND_BALLADS_OF_THE_DEAD" id="LEGENDS_AND_BALLADS_OF_THE_DEAD"></a>LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span></p> + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE FOLK OF THE AIR:</span> <span class="author">WM. BUTLER YEATS</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O'Driscoll drove with a song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wild duck and the drake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the tall and the tufted weeds<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the drear Heart Lake.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And he saw how the weeds grew dark<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the coming of night tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he dreamed of the long dark hair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of Bridget his bride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He heard while he sang and dreamed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A piper passing away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never was piping so sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never was piping so gay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And he saw young men and young girls<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who danced on a level place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Bridget his bride among them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a sad and a gay face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dancers crowded about him,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And many a sweet thing said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a young man brought him red wine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a young girl white bread.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away from the merry bands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To old men playing at cards<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a twinkling of ancient hands.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span> <span class="i0">The bread and the wine had a doom,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For these were the folk of the air;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sat and played in a dream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of her long dim hair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He played with the merry old men,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thought not of evil chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until one bore Bridget his bride<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away from the merry dance.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He bore her away in his arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The handsomest young man there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his neck and his breast and his arms<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were drowned in her long dim hair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O'Driscoll got up from the grass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And scattered the cards with a cry;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the old men and the dancers were gone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As a cloud faded into the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He knew now the folk of the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his heart was blackened by dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he ran to the door of his house;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Old women were keening the dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And he heard high up in the air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A piper piping away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never was piping so sad<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never was piping so gay.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE RECONCILIATION:</span> <span class="author">A. MARGARET RAMSAY</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The snow has ceased, the wind has hushed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The moon shines fair and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The night is drawing on apace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet Evan is not here.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The deer is couched among the fern,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The bird sleeps on the tree;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O what can keep my only son,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He bides so long from me?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O mother, come and take your rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since Evan stays so late;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If we leave the door unbarred for him,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What need to sit and wait?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now hold your peace, my daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be still and let me be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will not seek my bed this night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until my son I see."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she has left the door unbarred,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And by the fire sat still;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She drew her mantle her about<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the winter night grew chill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The moon had set beyond the moor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And half the night had gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When standing silent by her side<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She saw Evan her son.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I did not hear your step, Evan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor hear you lift the pin."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I would not wake my sister, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So softly I came in."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span> <span class="i0">"Now sit ye down and rest, Evan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I will give you meat."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I have been with my cousin John, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he gave me to eat."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Then have ye laid the quarrel by<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That was 'twixt him and you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And given each other pledge of faith<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye will be friends anew?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"We have laid the quarrel by, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Forevermore to sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he has given me his knife,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As pledge of faith to keep."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O is it blood or is it rust<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That makes the knife so red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it but the red firelight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That's shining on the blade?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No rust is on the blade, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor the firelight's ruddy hue;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bright blood ran upon the knife<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To seal our compact true."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O is it with the pale gray gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That comes before the dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or are ye weary with the road<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That ye look so ghastly wan?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A long and weary road, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I fared to reach my home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I must get me to my bed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That waits for me to come."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span> <span class="i0">"The night is bitter cold, Evan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">See that your bed be warm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take your plaid to cover you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lest the cold should do you harm."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yes, cold, cold is the night, mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet soundly do I rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the bleak North wind to cover me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the snow white on my breast."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE PRIEST'S BROTHER:</span> <span class="author">DORA SIGERSON SHORTER</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thrice in the night the priest arose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From broken sleep to kneel and pray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I a Mass for your soul may say."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thrice he went to the chamber cold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, stiff and still uncoffinéd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His brother lay, his beads he told,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And "Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the morning bell should toll;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still he heard—and woke to weep—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crying of his brother's soul.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All through the dark, till dawn was pale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The priest tossed in his misery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With muffled ears to hide the wail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The voice of that ghost's agony.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span> <span class="i0">At last the red cock flaps his wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To trumpet of a day new born.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lark, awaking, soaring, sings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the bosom of the morn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The priest before the altar stands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hears the spirit call for peace;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He beats his breast with shaking hands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, Father, grant this soul's release.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Most Just and Merciful, set free<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Purgatory's awful night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rest forever in Thy sight."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Mass is over—still the clerk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kneels pallid in the morning glow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He said, "From evils of the dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Benediction, that I may rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all night did the banshee weep."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The priest raised up his hands and blest—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Go now, my child, and you will sleep."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The priest went down the vestry stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He laid his vestments in their place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And turned—a pale ghost met him there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With beads of pain upon his face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Brother," he said, "you have gained me peace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But why so long did you know my tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say no Mass for my soul's release<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To save the torture of those years?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span> <span class="i0">"God rest you, brother," the good priest said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No years have passed—but a single night."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He showed the body uncoffinéd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the six wax candles still alight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The living flowers on the dead man's breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blew out a perfume sweet and strong.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spirit paused ere he passed to rest—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"God save your soul from a night so long."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT:</span> <span class="author">ROBERT BUCHANAN</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lay in the Field of Blood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beside the body stood.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Black was the earth by night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And black was the sky:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black, black were the broken clouds,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though the red Moon went by.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strangled and dead lay there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Looked on in its despair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The breath of the World came and went<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a sick man's in rest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drop by drop on the World's eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dews fell cool and blest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span> <span class="i0">Then the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did make a gentle moan—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I will bury underneath the ground<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My flesh and blood and bone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I will bury it deep beneath the soil,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lest mortals look thereon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when the wolf and raven come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My body will be gone!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And hard and cold, God wot;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I must bear my body hence<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until I find a spot!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So grim, and gaunt and grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raised the body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And carried it away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as he bare it from the field<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its touch was cold as ice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the ivory teeth within the jaw<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rattled aloud, like dice.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Carried its load with pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Eye of Heaven, like a lantern's eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Opened and shut again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Half he walked, and half he seemed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lifted on the cold wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He did not turn, for chilly hands<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were pushing from behind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span> <span class="i0">The first place that he came unto<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It was the open wold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And underneath were prickly whins,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a wind that blew so cold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The next place that he came unto<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It was a stagnant pool,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when he threw the body in<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It floated, light as wool.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He drew the body on his back<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And it was dripping chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the next place that he came unto<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was a Cross upon a hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A Cross upon the windy hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a Cross on either side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Three skeletons that swung thereon,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who had been crucified.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And on the middle cross-bar sat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A white Dove slumbering;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dim it sat in the dim light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With its head beneath its wing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And underneath the middle Cross<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A grave yawned wide and vast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shivered and glided past.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The fourth place that he came unto<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It was the Brig of Dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the great torrents rushing down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were deep and swift and red.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span> <span class="i0">He dared not fling the body in<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For fear of faces dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And arms were waved in the wild water<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To thrust it back to him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Turned from the Brig of Dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the dreadful foam of the wild water<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had splashed the body red.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For days and nights he wandered on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon an open plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the days went by like blinding mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the nights like rushing rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For days and nights he wandered on<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All through the Wood of Woe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the nights went by like the moaning wind<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the days like drifting snow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Came with a weary face—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alone, alone, and all alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Alone in a lonely place!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He wandered east and he wandered west,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And heard no human sound;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For months and years in grief and tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He wandered round and round.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For months and years, in grief and tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He walked the silent night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Perceived a far-off light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span> <span class="i0">A far-off light across the waste,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As dim as dim might be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That came and went like a lighthouse gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On a black night at sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Crawled to the distant gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the rain came down, and the rain was blown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Against him with a scream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For days and nights he wandered on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pushed on by hands unseen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the days went by like black, black rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the nights like rushing rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strange and sad and tall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood all alone at the dead of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before a lighted hall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all the wold was white with snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his foot-marks black and damp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the ghost of the silver Moon arose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Holding her yellow lamp.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the icicles were on the eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the walls were deep with white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the shadows of the guests within<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Passed on the window-light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the shadows of the wedding guests<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did strangely come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lay stretched along the snow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span> <span class="i0">The body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lay stretched along the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ran swiftly to and fro.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To and fro, and up and down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He ran so swiftly there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As round and round the frozen Pole<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Glideth the lean white bear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the lights burned bright and clear—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, who is there?" the Bridegroom said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Whose weary feet I hear?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas one looked up from the lighted hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And answered soft and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"It is a wolf runs up and down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a black track in the snow."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Bridegroom in his robe of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sat at the table-head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, who is that who moans without?"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The blessed Bridegroom said.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And answered fierce and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gliding to and fro."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did hush itself and stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw the Bridegroom at the door<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a light in his hand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span> <span class="i0">The Bridegroom stood in the open door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he was clad in white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And far within the Lord's Supper<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was spread so long and bright.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his face was bright to see—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With thy body's sins?" said he.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stood black, and sad, and bare—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I have wandered many nights and days;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There is no light elsewhere."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And their eyes were fierce and bright—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away into the night!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Bridegroom stood in the open door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he waved hands still and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the third time that he waved his hands<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The air was full of snow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And of every flake of falling snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before it touched the ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came a dove, and a thousand doves<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Made sweet sound.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Floated away full fleet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the wings of the doves that bare it off<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were like its winding sheet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span> <span class="i0">'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And beckoned, smiling sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stole in and fell at his feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The Holy Supper is spread within,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the many candles shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I have waited long for thee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before I poured the wine!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The supper wine is poured at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the lights burn bright and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And dries them with his hair.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="gap"> +<span class="title">THE EVE OF ST. JOHN:</span> <span class="author">WALTER SCOTT</span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He spurr'd his courser on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without stop or stay down the rocky way,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That leads to Brotherstone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He went not with the bold Buccleuch,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His banner broad to rear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He went not 'gainst the English yew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To lift the Scottish spear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Full ten pound weight and more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span> <span class="i0">The Baron return'd in three days' space,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his looks were sad and sour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And weary was his courser's pace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As he reach'd his rocky tower.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He came not from where Ancram Moor<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ran red with English blood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His acton pierced and tore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But it was not English gore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He lighted at the Chapellage,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He held him close and still;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His name was English Will.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come hither to my knee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though thou art young and tender of age,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I think thou art true to me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Come tell me all that thou hast seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And look thou tell me true!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What did my ladye do?"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My lady each night, sought the lonely light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That burns on the wild Watchfold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For from height to height, the beacons bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the English foemen told.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span> <span class="i0">"The bittern clamor'd from the moss,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wind blew loud and shrill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet the craggy pathway she did cross<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the eiry Beacon Hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I watch'd her steps, and silent came<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where she sat her on a stone;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No watchman stood by the dreary flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It burned all alone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The second night I kept her in sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till to the fire she came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, by Mary's might! an Arméd Knight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stood by the lonely flame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And many a word that warlike lord<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did speak to my lady there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I heard not what they were.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The third night there, the night was fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the mountain-blast was still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As again I watch'd the secret pair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the lonesome Beacon Hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And I heard her name the midnight hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And name this holy eve;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say 'Come this night to thy lady's bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ask no bold Baron's leave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His lady is all alone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The door she'll undo, to her knight so true<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the eve of the good St. John.'—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span> <span class="i0">"'I cannot come, I must not come:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I dare not come to thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the eve of St. John I must wander alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In thy bower I may not be.'—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou shouldst not say me nay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is worth the whole summer's day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So by the black-rood stone, and by holy St. John,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the warder his bugle should not blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And my foot-step he would know.'—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there to say mass, till three days do pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then he laugh'd right scornfully—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May as well say mass for me!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span> <span class="i0">"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In thy chamber will I be'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With that he was gone and my lady left alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And no more did I see."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the dark to the blood-red high;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For, by Mary, he shall die!"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His plume, it was scarlet and blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his crest was a branch of the yew."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loud dost thou lie to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For that knight is cold and laid in the mould,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All under the Eildon-tree."—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For I heard her name his name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that lady bright she called the knight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the high blood-red to pale—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The grave is deep and dark—and the corpse is stiff and stark—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So I may not trust thy tale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span> <span class="i0">"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Eildon slopes to the plain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That gay gallant was slain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The varying light deceived thy sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the wild winds drown'd the name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he mounted the narrow stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He found his lady fair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That lady sat in mournful mood;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Look'd o'er hill and vale;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all down Teviotdale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Now hail, thou Baron, true!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What news, what news from Ancram fight?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What news from the bold Buccleuch?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The Ancram moor is red with gore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For many a Southron fell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To watch our beacons well."—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor added the Baron a word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And so did her moody lord.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span> <span class="i0">In sleep the lady mourn'd and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And oft to himself he said:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The worms round him creep, and his bloody grave is deep.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It cannot give up the dead!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was near the ringing of matin-bell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The night was well-nigh done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the eve of good St. John.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady look'd through the chamber fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the light of the dying flame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she was aware of a knight stood there—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sir Richard of Coldinghame!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Alas! away! away!" she cried,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"For the holy Virgin's sake!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But, lady, he will not wake.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In bloody grave have I lain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But, lady, they are said in vain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Most foully slain I fell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a space is doom'd to dwell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"At our trysting place, for a certain space,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I must wander to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I had not had power to come to thy bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hadst thou not conjured me so."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span> <span class="i0">Love master'd fear—her brow she cross'd;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"How, Richard, hast thou sped?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And art thou saved or art thou lost?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The vision shook his head!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So bid thy lord believe:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lawless love is guilt above,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This awful sign receive."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He laid his left hand on an oaken beam,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His right upon her hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For it scorched like a fiery brand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sable score, of fingers four,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Remains on that board impress'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And forever more that lady wore<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A covering on her wrist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ne'er looks upon the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a monk in Melrose tower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He speaketh word to none.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That monk that speaks to none,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That monk the bold Baron.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I am no love for you, Margaret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You are no love for me.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before to-morrow at eight of the clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A rich wedding you shall see."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Combing her yellow hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There she espied sweet William and his bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As they were a-riding near.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down she laid her ivory comb,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And up she bound her hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She went away out of her bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never returnéd there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When day was gone and night was come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all men fast asleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came the spirit of fair Marg'ret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And stood at William's feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Are you awake, sweet William?" she said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Or, William, are you asleep?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And me of my winding sheet."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When day was come and night was gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all men waked in from sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet William to his ladye said,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Alas I have cause to weep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span> <span class="i0">"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such dreams are never good,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I dreamt my bower was full of red swine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the walls ran down with blood."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He called up his merrymen all,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By one, by two, and by three;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saying, "I'll away to fair Margaret's bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the leave of my ladye."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when he came to fair Margaret's bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He knocked at the ring;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who so ready as her seven brethren,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To let sweet William in.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He turned down the covering-sheet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To see the face of the dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Methinks she looks all pale and wan;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She hath lost her cherry red.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I would do more for thee, Margaret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than would any of thy kin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I will kiss thy pale cold lips,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though a smile I cannot win."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With that bespake the seven brethren,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Making most piteous moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"You may go and kiss your jolly brown bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And let our sister alone!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I do but what is right;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By day, nor yet by night."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span> <span class="i0">"Deal on, deal on, ye merrymen all,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Deal on your cake and wine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fair Margaret died as it might be to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sweet William he died the morrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair Margaret died for pure true love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sweet William he died for sorrow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Margaret was buried in the lower chancel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And William in the higher;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out of her breast there sprang a rose tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And out of his a brier.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They grew till they grew unto the church-top,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And when they could grow no higher;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there they tied a true lover's knot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which made all the people admire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last the clerk of the parish came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the truth doth well appear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by misfortune he cut them down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or else they had now been here.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There came a ghost to Marjorie's door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' many a grievous moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And aye he tirled at the pin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But answer made she none.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span> <span class="i0">"Oh, say, is that my father?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or is't my brother John?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it my true love Willy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From Scotland new come home?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Tis not thy father, Marjorie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor not thy brother John;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But 'tis thy true love Willy<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From Scotland new come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh Marjorie sweet! oh Marjorie dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For faith and charitie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will ye gie me back my faith and troth<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I gave once to thee?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thy faith and troth thou gavest to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And again thou'lt never win,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until thou come within my bower<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And kiss me cheek and chin."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My lips they are sae bitter," he says,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"My breath it is sae strang,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If ye get ae kiss from me to-night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your days will not be lang.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The cocks are crawing, Marjorie,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cocks are crawing again:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead wi' the quick they mustna stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I must needs be gone."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She followed him high, she followed him low,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till she came to yon church-yard green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there the deep grave opened up,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And young William he lay down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span> <span class="i0">"What three things are these, sweet William,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That stand beside your head?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O it's three maidens, Marjorie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That once I promised to wed."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What three things are these, sweet William,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That stand close at your side?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O it's three babes," he says, "Marjorie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That these three maidens had."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What three things are these, sweet William,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That lie close at thy feet?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O it's three hell-hounds, Marjorie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That's waiting my soul to keep."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she took up her white, white hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And struck him on the breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saying, "Have here again thy faith and troth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I wish your soul good rest."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">CLERK SAUNDERS</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Clerk Saunders and may Margaret<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Walked ower yon garden green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And deep and heavy was the love<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That fell thir twa between.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"A bed for you and me!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Till anes we married be!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span> <span class="i0">"Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And slowly lift the pin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you may swear, and save your aith,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Take your napkin in your hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tie up your bonnie een,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you may swear and save your aith,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye saw me na since yestreen."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was about the midnight hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When they asleep were laid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in and came her seven brothers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' torches burning red:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When in and came her seven brothers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' torches burning bright:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They said, "We hae but one sister,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And behold her lying with a knight!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then out and spake the first o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"We will awa' and let them be."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out and spake the second o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"His father has nae mair but he."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And out and spake the third o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"I wot that they are lovers dear."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out and spake the fourth o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"They hae been in love this mony a year."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then out and spake the fifth o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"It were great sin true love to twain,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out and spake the sixth o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"It were shame to slay a sleeping man."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span> <span class="i0">Then up and gat the seventh o' them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And never a word spake he;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he has striped his bright brown brand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Into his arms as asleep she lay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sad and silent was the night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That was atween thir twae.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And they lay still and sleepit sound<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until the day began to daw;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kindly she to him did say,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"It is time, true love, you were awa'."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he lay still and sleepit sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Albeit the sun began to sheen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She looked between her and the wa',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And dull and drowsie were his een.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then in and came her father dear;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said, "Let a' your mourning be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I'll come back and comfort thee."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Comfort weel your seven sons,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For comforted I will never be:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I trow 'twas neither knave nor loon<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was in the bower last night wi' me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The clinking bell gaed through the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And carried the dead corpse to the clay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young Saunders stood at may Margaret's window,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I wot, an hour before the day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span> <span class="i0">"Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Or are you waking presentlie?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give me my faith and troth again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">True love, as I gied them to thee."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Your faith and troth ye sall never get,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor our true love sall never twin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until ye come within my bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And kiss me cheek and chin."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It has the smell now of the ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if I may kiss thy comely mouth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy days will soon be at an end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I wot the wild fowls are boding day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give me my faith and troth again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And let me fare me on my way."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And our true love sall never twin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until ye tell wha' comes o' women,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Their beds are made in the heavens high,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I wot, sweet company for to see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I wot the wild fowls are boding day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I, ere now, will be missed away."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span> <span class="i0">Then she has taken a crissom wand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And she has stroken her troth thereon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She has given it him out at the shot-window,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ever I thank ye heartilie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But gin I were living, as I am dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'd keep my faith and troth with thee."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She climbed the wall, and followed him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until she came to the green forest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And there she lost the sight o' him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is there ony room at your feet?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there ony room at your side, Saunders?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There's nae room at my feet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My bed it is fu' lowly now,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Amang the hungry worms I sleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Cauld mould is my covering now,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But and my winding-sheet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dew it fall nae sooner down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then my resting place is weet."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then up and crew the red, red cock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then up and crew the gray;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That you were going away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span> <span class="i0">"And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Marg'ret, o' veritie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gin e'er ye love another man,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ne'er love him as ye did me."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="secgap author">THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There lived a wife at Usher's Well,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a wealthy wife was she;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had three stout and stalwart sons,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sent them o'er the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They hadna been a week from her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A week but barely ane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When word cam' to the carline wife<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That her three sons were gane.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They hadna been a week from her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A week but barely three,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When word cam' to the carline wife<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That her sons she'd never see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I wish the wind may never cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor fish be in the flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till my three sons come hame to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In earthly flesh and blood!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It fell about the Martinmas,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When nights are lang and mirk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The carline wife's three sons cam' hame,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And their hats were o' the birk.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span> <span class="i0">If neither grew in shye nor ditch<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor yet in any small shugh;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But at the gates o' Paradise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That birk grew fair eneugh.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Blow up the fire, my maidens!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bring water from the well!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a' my house shall feast this night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since my three sons are well."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she has made to them a bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She's made it large and wide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she's ta'en her mantle round about,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sat down at the bedside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up then crew the red, red cock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And up and crew the gray;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The eldest to the youngest said,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"'Tis time we were away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The channerin' worm doth chide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gin we be miss'd out o' our place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sair pain we maun bide."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lie still but if we may;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She'll go mad ere it be the day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Our mother has nae mair but us;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">See where she leans asleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mantle that was on herself,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She has happ'd it round our feet."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span> <span class="i0">O it's they have ta'en up their mother's mantle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And they've hung it on a pin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ere ye hap us again!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fare ye weel, my mother dear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fareweel to barn and byre!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fare ye weel, the bonny lass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That kindles my mother's fire!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="secgap author">A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This ae nighte, this ae nighte,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When thou from hence away art passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sit thee down and put them on;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The whins sall prick thee to the bare bane;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span> <span class="i0">From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Purgatory Fire thou com'st at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If ever thou gavest meat or drink,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fire sall never make thee shrink;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If meat or drink thou never gav'st nane,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This ae nighte, this ae nighte,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—<i>Every nighte and alle,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And Christe receive thy saule.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="author center">THE END</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX"></a>INDEX</h2> + +<p> +After Death, <a href="#Page_141">141</a><br /> +All-Saints' Eve, <a href="#Page_3">3</a><br /> +All-Souls, <a href="#Page_3">3</a><br /> +All-Souls' Night, <a href="#Page_9">9</a><br /> +All-Souls' Night, <a href="#Page_16">16</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Allen, Elizabeth Akers</span>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Allingham, William</span>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Arnold, Sir Edwin</span>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a><br /> +At Home, <a href="#Page_143">143</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Bacon, Josephine Daskam</span>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a><br /> +Ballad of Douglas Bridge, <a href="#Page_43">43</a><br /> +Ballad of Hallowe'en, <a href="#Page_7">7</a><br /> +Ballad of Judas Iscariot, The, <a href="#Page_205">205</a><br /> +Ballad of the Buried Sword, <a href="#Page_39">39</a><br /> +Banshee, The, <a href="#Page_183">183</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Barham, Richard Harris</span>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a><br /> +Beleaguered City, The, <a href="#Page_122">122</a><br /> +Betrayal, <a href="#Page_151">151</a><br /> +Blockhouse on the Hill, The, <a href="#Page_49">49</a><br /> +Blue Closet, The, <a href="#Page_163">163</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Branch, Anna Hempstead</span>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Buchanan, Robert</span>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Byron, May</span>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a><br /> +<br /> +Cape Horn Gospel, <a href="#Page_79">79</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Carlin, Francis</span>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Cawein, Madison</span>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Chesson, Nora Hopper</span>, <a href="#Page_xiv">xiv</a><br /> +Child, The, <a href="#Page_28">28</a><br /> +Child Alone, The, <a href="#Page_27">27</a><br /> +Clerk Saunders, <a href="#Page_224">224</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Cone, Helen Gray</span>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Cortissoz, Ellen M. H.</span>, <a href="#Page_14">14</a><br /> +<br /> +Dave Lilly, <a href="#Page_112">112</a><br /> +Dead Coach, The, <a href="#Page_175">175</a><br /> +Dead Mother, <a href="#Page_192">192</a><br /> +Deid Folks' Ferry, <a href="#Page_176">176</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">De la Mare, Walter</span>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Dobell, Sydney</span>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a><br /> +Drake's Drum, <a href="#Page_41">41</a><br /> +Dream, A, <a href="#Page_4">4</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Driscoll, Louise</span>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Easter, Marguerite Elizabeth</span>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Eaton, Arthur Wentworth Hamilton</span>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a><br /> +Eve of St. John, The, <a href="#Page_212">212</a><br /> +<br /> +Far-Away Country, The, <a href="#Page_xiv">xiv</a><br /> +Fair Margaret's Misfortunes, <a href="#Page_220">220</a><br /> +Featherstone's Doom, <a href="#Page_73">73</a><br /> +Fetch, The, <a href="#Page_179">179</a><br /> +Fireflies, <a href="#Page_132">132</a><br /> +Flying Dutchman, The, <a href="#Page_61">61</a><br /> +Flying Dutchman of Tappan Zee, <a href="#Page_68">68</a><br /> +Fog Wraiths, <a href="#Page_76">76</a><br /> +Folk of the Air, The, <a href="#Page_199">199</a><br /> +Forgotten Soul, The, <a href="#Page_8">8</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Freneau, Philip</span>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Garrison, Theodosia</span>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a><br /> +Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_107">107</a><br /> +Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_155">155</a><br /> +Ghosts, <a href="#Page_135">135</a><br /> +Ghosts of the Argonne, <a href="#Page_56">56</a><br /> +Ghost's Petition, The, <a href="#Page_166">166</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Gillington, Alice E.</span>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span> +Grey Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_42">42</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Guiterman, Arthur</span>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a><br /> +<br /> +Hallows' E'en, <a href="#Page_13">13</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Harte, Bret</span>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a><br /> +Haunted, <a href="#Page_130">130</a><br /> +Haunted, <a href="#Page_134">134</a><br /> +Haunted, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br /> +Haunted, <a href="#Page_153">153</a><br /> +Haunted Houses, <a href="#Page_120">120</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Hawker, Robert Stephen</span>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a><br /> +He and She, <a href="#Page_169">169</a><br /> +Highwayman, The, <a href="#Page_157">157</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Hood, Thomas</span>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Housman, A. E.</span>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Howells, Mildred</span>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Humphreys, Louisa</span>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a><br /> +<br /> +Indian Burying Ground, The, <a href="#Page_44">44</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Ingelow, Jean</span>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a><br /> +Ingoldsby Penance, <a href="#Page_87">87</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Irving, Minna</span>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a><br /> +<br /> +Janet's Tryst, <a href="#Page_10">10</a><br /> +<br /> +Keith of Ravelston, <a href="#Page_178">178</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kendall, May</span>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kilmer, Aline</span>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kilmer, Joyce</span>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kingsley, Charles</span>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kipling, Rudyard</span>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a><br /> +<br /> +Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The, <a href="#Page_66">66</a><br /> +Legend, A, <a href="#Page_126">126</a><br /> +Legend of Hamilton Tighe, <a href="#Page_80">80</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Leland, Charles Godfrey</span>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Letts, Winifred M.</span>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a><br /> +Listeners, <a href="#Page_119">119</a><br /> +Little Dead Child, The, <a href="#Page_25">25</a><br /> +Little Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_22">22</a><br /> +Little Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_133">133</a><br /> +Little Green Orchard, The, <a href="#Page_131">131</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth</span>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a><br /> +Looking-glass, The, <a href="#Page_40">40</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Lowell, Amy</span>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a><br /> +Luke Havergal, <a href="#Page_156">156</a><br /> +Lyke-Wake Dirge, A, <a href="#Page_231">231</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Macdonald, George</span>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Marquis, Don</span>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br /> +Martin, <a href="#Page_114">114</a><br /> +Mary Shepherdess, <a href="#Page_21">21</a><br /> +Mary's Ghost, <a href="#Page_109">109</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Masefield, John</span>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a><br /> +Mawgan of Melhuach, <a href="#Page_188">188</a><br /> +Midnight Visitor, A, <a href="#Page_128">128</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Millay, Edna St. Vincent</span>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Mitchell, Ruth Comfort</span>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Moore, Thomas</span>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Morris, William</span>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a><br /> +Mother's Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_189">189</a><br /> +My Laddie's Hounds, <a href="#Page_33">33</a><br /> +<br /> +Neighbors, The, <a href="#Page_6">6</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Newbolt, Henry</span>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a><br /> +Newport Romance, A, <a href="#Page_124">124</a><br /> +Night at Gettysburg, <a href="#Page_51">51</a><br /> +November Eleventh, <a href="#Page_57">57</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Noyes, Alfred</span>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a><br /> +<br /> +Old House, The, <a href="#Page_35">35</a><br /> +On Kingston Bridge, <a href="#Page_14">14</a><br /> +One Out-of-doors, <a href="#Page_149">149</a><br /> +Open Door, The, <a href="#Page_32">32</a><br /> +<br /> +Passer-by, <a href="#Page_141">141</a><br /> +Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs, The, <a href="#Page_63">63</a><br /> +Phantom Ship, The, <a href="#Page_61">61</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Piatt, Sarah</span>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Pickthall, Marjorie L. C.</span>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a><br /> +Pompey's Ghost, <a href="#Page_103">103</a><br /> +Priest's Brother, The, <a href="#Page_203">203</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Quiller-Couch, Arthur T.</span>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ramsay, A. Margaret</span>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a><br /> +Reconciliation, The, <a href="#Page_201">201</a><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span> +<span class="smcap">Reese, Lizette Woodworth</span>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a><br /> +Return, The, <a href="#Page_143">143</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Rhys, Ernest</span>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Rice, Grantland</span>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a><br /> +Riders, The, <a href="#Page_52">52</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Robinson, Edwin Arlington</span>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a><br /> +Room's Width, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Rossetti, Christina</span>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a><br /> +<br /> +Sailing Beyond Seas, <a href="#Page_149">149</a><br /> +Sands of Dee, The, <a href="#Page_65">65</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Schauffler, Robert Haven</span>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Scott, Sir Walter</span>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a><br /> +Sea Ghosts, <a href="#Page_74">74</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Seitz, Don C.</span>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a><br /> +Seven Whistlers, <a href="#Page_185">185</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Shorter, Dora Sigerson</span>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a><br /> +Song of Soldiers, The, <a href="#Page_49">49</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Stuart, G. B.</span>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a><br /> +Such Are the Souls in Purgatory, <a href="#Page_29">29</a><br /> +Superstitious Ghost, The, <a href="#Page_111">111</a><br /> +Supper Superstition, <a href="#Page_84">84</a><br /> +Sweet William's Ghost, <a href="#Page_222">222</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Thomas, Edith M.</span>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a><br /> +Three Ghosts, The, <a href="#Page_137">137</a><br /> +True Lover, The, <a href="#Page_152">152</a><br /> +Two Brothers, <a href="#Page_24">24</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Tynan, Katherine</span>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_175">175</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Untermeyer, Louis</span>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a><br /> +<br /> +Victor, The, <a href="#Page_187">187</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps</span>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Watson, Rosamund Marriott</span>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a><br /> +White Comrade, The, <a href="#Page_53">53</a><br /> +White Ships and the Red, <a href="#Page_70">70</a><br /> +White Moth, The, <a href="#Page_154">154</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">Widdemer, Margaret</span>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a><br /> +Wife of Usher's Well, The, <a href="#Page_229">229</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Yeats, William Butler</span>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a><br /> +</p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3 class="left">Transcriber's Notes</h3> +<p> +<a href="#Page_88">Page 88</a>: changed Sine to Since.<br /> +<a href="#Page_192">Page 192</a>: changed Thy to They.<br /> +The unusual spacing in "The Ingoldsby Penance" has been preserved from the original.<br /> +</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Haunted Hour, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED HOUR *** + +***** This file should be named 17229-h.htm or 17229-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/2/2/17229/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Stacy Brown Thellend, and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED HOUR *** + +***** This file should be named 17229.txt or 17229.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/2/2/17229/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Stacy Brown Thellend, and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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