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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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