One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel :❞— His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;" A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture For he had promised to "be home to tea;" Vain fruitless hope!-The wearied sentinel At eve may overlook the crouching foe, Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, He sinks beneath the unexpected blow; Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,- Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread; And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,— "How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?" Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion; When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead, And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed, Not so our Nicholas, his meditations Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, He pondered o'er each well-remembered word; Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course all white;— And now those matted locks, which never yet Their long-contracted amity forget, And spring asunder with elastic force; Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse, Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, Uprose in agony-the Gorgon's head Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed. From every pore distill'd a clammy dew, In short, was in a most tremendous stew;— All motionless the Specter stood,—and now Its reverend form more clearly shone confest; The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, It stood, and with an action of command, "Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?" And not a sound upon the welkin rung. His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets,-like a frightened Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright. And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door; Than stare, without e'en asking, “What d' ye mean?” Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, Derive a sort of courage from despair, And then perform, from downright desperation, And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown, As though the domicile had been his own, Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew, Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade, Sole, sad memorials of the olden time, Within the moldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone; It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness, The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown; As though indignant mortal step should dare, -The Apparition paused, and would have spoke, As that shrill clarion the silence broke. —We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The vision was no more--and Nick alone- -His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,— The ring, which made him most his fate bemoanThe iron ring, no doubt of some trap door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store. "What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clew— Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do.” (Then clapped his hand behind)-"'Tis chilly tooI'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by ?-Oh, here's the wallThe mortar's yielding-here I'll stick my awl!" Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below;Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle. Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream For dream it was;-and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream And still he listens, with averted eye, When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair! A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS. GENGULPHUS comes from the Holy Land, R. HARRIS BARHAM With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon; Full many a day hath he been away, Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon. |