HAUNTED 
 HOUR 
 
 MARGARETW1DDEWER
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE HAUNTED HOUR
 
 THE HAUNTED HOUR 
 
 An Anthology 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 MARGARET WIDDEMER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE 
 1920
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ2O, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACK AND HOWE, INC. 
 
 THE QUINN ft 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 re- 
 served by the holders of the copyright, or the authorized pub- 
 lishers, 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. Kip- 
 ling's " The Looking-Glass." 
 To E. P. Button & 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, Wal- 
 ter 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 Hop- 
 per's " Far Away Country," Marjorie PickthalPs " 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 Rover 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, Theo- 
 dosia 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 Lud- 
 lum 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 
 
 The Far Away Country Nora Hopper Chesson 
 
 " THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS 
 
 All-Souls 
 All-Saints' Eve 
 A Dream 
 The Neighbors 
 A Ballad of I 
 
 e'en 
 
 The Forgotten Soul 
 All-Souls' Night 
 Janet's Tryst . 
 Hallows' E'en 
 On Kingston Bridge 
 All-Souls' Night 
 
 Mary Shepherdess 
 The Little Ghost 
 Two Brothers 
 The Little Dead Child 
 The Child Alone 
 The Child 
 Such Are tl 
 Purgatory 
 The Open Door 
 My Laddie's Hounds 
 The Old House 
 
 Ballad of the 
 
 Sword . 
 
 The Looking-Glass 
 Drake's Drum 
 The Grey Ghost 
 Ballad of 
 
 Bridge . 
 The Indian 
 
 Ground 
 
 PACE 
 
 . xiv 
 
 Kathenne Tynan 
 
 3 
 
 Lizelte Woodivorth Reese 
 
 3 
 
 William Allingham . 
 
 4 
 
 Theodosia Garrison 
 j _ 1 1 ~.. 
 
 . 6 
 
 iallow- 
 Theodosia Garrison 
 
 7 
 
 soul . Margaret Widdemer 
 
 . 8 
 
 : . . Dora Sigerson Shorter . 
 
 9 
 
 George Macdonald . 
 
 . 10 
 
 , Winifred M. Letts . 
 
 - 13 
 
 idge . Ellen M. H. Cortissoz . 
 
 . 4 
 
 : . . Louisa Humphreys . 
 
 . 16 
 
 " ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS " 
 
 
 ESS . Marjorie L. C. Pickthall 
 
 . 21 
 
 it . . Katherine Tynan . . . 
 
 . 22 
 
 Theodosia Garrison 
 
 24 
 
 Child . Josephine Daskam Bacon 
 
 25 
 
 -,e . . Rosamund Marriott Watson . 
 
 27 
 
 Theodosia Garrison . . 
 
 . 28 
 
 Souls in 
 
 
 Anna Hempstead Branch 
 
 . 29 
 
 r . . Rosamund Marriott Watson . 
 
 32 
 
 ounds . Marguerite Elizabeth Easter 
 
 33 
 
 Katherine Tynan . . . 
 
 35 
 
 SHADOWY HEROES 
 
 
 Buried 
 
 
 . . Ernest Rhys . . . . 
 
 
 lass . Rudyard Kipling . 
 
 40 
 
 
 
 
 
 Douglas 
 
 
 
 
 Burying 
 
 
 be 

 
 Contents 
 
 " RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS " 
 
 The Song of Soldiers 
 By the Blockhouse < 
 
 the Hill . . 
 Night at Gettysburg 
 The Riders . 
 The White Comrade 
 Ghosts of the Argonne 
 November Eleventh 
 
 The Flying Dutchman 
 The Phantom Ship 
 The Phantom Light of 
 
 the Baie des Chaleurs 
 The Sands of Dee 
 The Lake of the Dismal 
 
 Swamp 
 The Flying Dutchman 
 
 of the Tappan Zee 
 The White Ships and 
 
 the Red 
 
 Featherstone's Doom 
 Sea-Ghosts 
 Fog Wraiths . 
 
 Cape Horn Gospel 
 Legend of Hamilton 
 
 Tighe . 
 
 The Supper Superstition 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 
 Pompey's Ghost . 
 The Ghost . 
 Mary's Ghost 
 The Superstitious Ghost 
 Dave Lilly 
 Martin 
 
 The Listeners 
 Haunted Houses . 
 The Beleaguered City 
 
 Walter De La Mare 
 
 PAGE 
 
 49 
 
 Helen Gray Cone . 
 Don C. Seitz ... 
 Katherine Tynan 
 Robert Haven S chauffer 
 Grantland Rice 
 Ruth Comfort Mitchell . 
 
 49 
 5' 
 5* 
 53 
 56 
 57 
 
 SEA GHOSTS 
 
 
 Charles Godfrey Leland . 
 Henry Wadsiuorth Longfellow . 
 
 61 
 61 
 
 Arthur Wentivorth Hamilton Eaton 
 Charles Kingsley . . 
 
 63 
 65 
 
 Thomas Moore . . 
 
 66 
 
 Arthur Guiterman . - . 
 
 68 
 
 Joyce Kilmer 
 Robert Stephen Haiaker . 
 May Byron 
 Mildred Hoioells .... 
 
 70 
 73 
 74 
 76 
 
 CHEERFUL SPIRITS 
 
 
 John Masefield .... 
 
 79 
 
 Richard Harris Bar ham 
 Thomas Hood . 
 Richard Harris Barham 
 Thomas Hood . 
 Thomas Hood . 
 Thomas Hood . 
 Arthur Guiterman . 
 Joyce Kilmer 
 Joyce Kilmer 
 
 80 
 84 
 87 
 103 
 107 
 109 
 in 
 
 112 
 
 "4 
 
 HAUNTED PLACES 
 
 
 Walter De La Mare 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfello<w . 
 Henry Wadsioorth Longfelloio . 
 Bret Harte . 
 
 119 
 
 I2O 
 122 
 124
 
 
 Contents 
 
 XI 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Legend 
 
 May Kendall .... 
 
 . 126 
 
 A Midnight Visitor 
 
 Elizabeth Akers Allen . 
 
 . 128 
 
 Haunted .... 
 
 
 
 The Little Green Or- 
 
 
 
 chard .... 
 
 Walter De La Mare 
 
 . 131 
 
 Fireflies .... 
 
 Louise Driscoll .... 
 
 132 
 
 The Little Ghost . 
 
 Edna St. Vincent Millay 
 
 133 
 
 Haunted .... 
 
 Louis Untermeyer 
 
 . 134 
 
 Ghosts .... 
 
 Madison Caiaein 
 
 35 
 
 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 .... 
 
 43 
 
 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 .... 
 
 
 Sailing Beyond Seas . 
 
 Jean Ingeloio .... 
 
 149 
 
 Betrayal .... 
 
 
 
 The True Lover . 
 
 A. E. Housman 
 
 *52 
 
 Haunted .... 
 
 G. B. Stuart .... 
 
 153 
 
 The White Moth . 
 
 Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch 
 
 154 
 
 The Ghost . 
 
 Walter De La Mare 
 
 X 55 
 
 Luke Havergal 
 
 Edivin 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 Edivin Arnold . 
 
 . 169 
 
 
 SHAPES OF DOOM 
 
 
 The Dead Coach . 
 
 Katherine Tynan 
 
 '75 
 
 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 Wads<worth Longfellow 
 
 . 189 
 
 }The Dead Mother 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 . 192
 
 Xll 
 
 Contents 
 
 LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD 
 
 The Folk of the Air . 
 
 The Reconciliation 
 
 The Priest's Brother . 
 
 The Ballad of Judas 
 Iscariot 
 
 The Eve of St. John . 
 
 Fair Margaret's Mis- 
 fortunes 
 
 Sweet William's Ghost 
 
 Clerk Saunders . . 
 
 The Wife of Usher's 
 Well .... 
 
 A Lyke-Wake Dirge . 
 
 William Butler Yeats 
 A. Margaret Ramsay 
 Dora Sigerson Shorter 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 Walter Scott 
 
 Anon. 
 Anon. 
 Anon. 
 
 Anon. 
 Anon. 
 
 PAGE 
 199 
 
 201 
 203 
 
 205 
 212 
 
 220 
 222 
 224 
 
 229 
 2 3 I
 
 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 jar 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 NIGHT 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! 
 3
 
 The Haunted Hour 
 
 Innumerable, white, 
 
 Like mist they fijl the square ; 
 The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight, 
 
 The shutter barred there. 
 
 There walks one small and glad, 
 New to the churchyard clod; 
 
 My little lad, my little lad, 
 A single year with God! 
 
 I sit and hide my head 
 
 Until they all are past, 
 Under the empty trees the dead 
 
 That go full soft and fast. 
 
 Up to my chamber dim, 
 
 Back to my bed I plod ; 
 Oh, would I were a ghost with him, 
 
 And faring back to God! 
 
 A DREAM : WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night ; 
 I went to the window to see the sight; 
 All the dead that ever I knew 
 Going one by one and two by two. 
 
 On they pass'd and on they pass'd ; 
 Townsfellows all, from first to last; 
 Born in the moonlight of the lane, 
 Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
 
 A Dream 5 
 
 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 Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 A Ballad of Hallowe'en 7 
 
 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.
 
 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 All-Souls' Night g 
 
 'Twos 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 
 
 mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair 
 
 and the white board spread, 
 
 1 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. 
 
 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; 
 
 1 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.
 
 10 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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'."
 
 Janet's Tryst II 
 
 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
 
 12 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 13 
 
 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 in- 
 side, 
 
 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 com- 
 rade's face.
 
 14 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 
 
 riddle 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.
 
 On Kingston Bridge 15 
 
 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.
 
 1 6 The Haunted Hour 
 
 '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."
 
 All Souls' Night 17 
 
 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? 
 " Marie, 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. 
 
 21
 
 22 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Little Ghost 23 
 
 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.
 
 24 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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!
 
 The Little Dead Child 25 
 
 "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.
 
 26 The Haunted Hour 
 
 11 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. 
 
 11 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!"
 
 The Child Alone 27 
 
 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.
 
 28 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 even/all. 
 
 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.
 
 Such Are the Souls in Purgatory 29 
 
 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.
 
 3O The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 Such Are the Souls in Purgatory 31 
 
 " 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.
 
 32 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 My Laddie's Hounds 33 
 
 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.
 
 34 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 
 is it hunts my laddie's hounds 
 Till fa o day?
 
 The Old House 35 
 
 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. 
 39
 
 40 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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."
 
 Drake's Drum 41 
 
 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.
 
 43 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Ballad of Douglas Bridge 43 
 
 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."
 
 44 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Indian Burying Ground 45 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 49
 
 5O The Haunted Hour 
 
 "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."
 
 Night at Gettysburg 51 
 
 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!
 
 52 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 White Comrade 53 
 
 The tall knight rides fierce and fast 
 To the sound of a trumpet-blast. 
 
 The little knight in fire and flame, 
 Slender and soft as a dame, 
 
 Rides and is not far behind: 
 His long hair floats on the wind, 
 
 And ever the tramp of chivalry 
 Comes like the sound of the sea. 
 
 This is Michael rides abroad, 
 Prince of the army of God, 
 
 And this like a lily arrayed 
 Is Joan, the blessed Maid. 
 
 Rheims is down in fire and smoke 
 And the hour of God's at the stroke. 
 
 THE WHITE COMRADE: ROBERT HAVEN 
 
 SCHAUFFLER 
 
 Under our curtain of fire, 
 
 Over the clotted clods, 
 
 We charged, to be withered, to reel 
 
 And despairingly wheel 
 
 When the signal bade us retire 
 
 From the terrible odds.
 
 54 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The White Comrade 55 
 
 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,
 
 56 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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:
 
 November Eleventh 57 
 
 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.
 
 58 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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 Dar- 
 danelles." 
 
 " 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. 
 61
 
 62 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Phantom Light of the Bate des Chaleurs 63 
 
 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.
 
 64 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Sands of Dee 65 
 
 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.
 
 66 The Haunted Hour 
 
 "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 
 Above the nets at sea? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
 Among the stakes of Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
 The cruel, crawling foam, 
 The cruel, hungry foam, 
 To her grave beside the sea, 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
 Across the sands of Dee! 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP : THOMAS 
 
 MOORE 
 
 " They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a soul so warm and true; 
 And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, 
 
 She paddles her white canoe. 
 
 And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 
 
 And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
 Long and loving our life shall be, 
 And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, 
 When the footstep of death is near!" 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, 
 
 His path was rugged and sore, 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
 Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 
 
 And man never trod before!
 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 67 
 
 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!
 
 68 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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!
 
 The Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Zee 69 
 
 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
 
 70 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The White Ships and the Red 71 
 
 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?
 
 72 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Feather stone's Doom 73 
 
 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.
 
 74 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Sea-Ghosts 75 
 
 To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow, 
 
 The answering trumpets blow: 
 War-horn and fife and cymbals follow, 
 
 From galleys of long ago. 
 
 The crested breaker on reef and boulder 
 
 That swirls in cavernous black, 
 Carries a challenge from decks that moulder 
 
 To ships that never came back. 
 
 The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles 
 Are one in their wrath and might 
 
 With the crash and clashing of armed vessels, 
 Grinding across the night. 
 
 Out of the dark the broadsides thunder, 
 
 Clattering to and fro: 
 The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder, 
 
 Are manning their wrecks below. 
 
 You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle, 
 
 Shall mark on the surly blast 
 Rush and tear of the rending tackle, 
 
 Thud of the falling mast. 
 
 With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters, 
 
 Scourging the strand again, 
 A terrible outcry leaps and shatters 
 
 Tumult of drowning men. 
 
 The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles 
 
 Was never such fear as this! 
 A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles 
 
 Out of the sea's abyss.
 
 76 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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. 
 
 79
 
 80 The Haunted Hour 
 
 1 ' 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 HAR- 
 RIS 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;
 
 Legend of Hamilton Tighe 81 
 
 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! "
 
 82 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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;
 
 Legend of Hamilton Tighe 83 
 
 They close the door, and they turn the pin, 
 
 But there's One rides with her that never slept 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;
 
 84 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Supper Superstition 85 1 
 
 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."
 
 86 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 87 
 
 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!"
 
 88 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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 
 
 Sine 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? ' "
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 89 
 
 " 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! ' r 
 
 Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage, 
 
 By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; 
 
 The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, 
 And buffets and pinches his nose till he sneezes; 
 Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads 
 Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's 
 heads. 
 
 When the contents of the scroll met his view, 
 Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, 
 Backward he drew His mailed shoe, 
 And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew 
 Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, 
 I may not say whither I never knew.
 
 90 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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,
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 91 
 
 " 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, 
 
 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: 
 
 1 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 perilousstairs ! " 
 
 " 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,
 
 92 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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. 
 
 Holy Father, pardon and grace! 
 
 Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life, 
 
 1 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 ! "
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 93 
 
 " Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, 
 
 Holy Father, pardon and grace! 
 
 No power could save That paramour knave J 
 
 1 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,
 
 94 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 t turpissimef Vir nequissimel 
 Sceleratissime! quissime! issimef 
 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 sacula steculorum! 
 
 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;
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 95 
 
 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!
 
 96 The Haunted Hour 
 
 And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, 
 Never shall wash himself, comb or shave, 
 Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, 
 Nor indulge in a pipe But shall dine upon 
 
 tripe 
 
 And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, 
 And forever abhor, renounce and abjure 
 Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and 
 liqueur! " 
 
 (Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way 
 To a feeling which prompted a word profane, 
 But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, 
 And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a 
 Mere repetition of O mea culpa!) 
 
 " Thrice three times on Candlemas-day, 
 
 Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray 
 
 Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, 
 
 Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, 
 Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, 
 With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire, 
 And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear, 
 Any more from this day, The surname of Bray, 
 As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has 
 Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias! 
 So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease, 
 And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace ! " 
 
 Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) 
 Is off like a shot away and away, 
 
 Over the brine To far Palestine, 
 To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain 
 For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 97 
 
 " 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!
 
 98 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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,
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance 99 
 
 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!"
 
 IOO The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 guess.'d, 
 Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, con- 
 
 fess'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,
 
 The Ingoldsby Penance IOI 
 
 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 in- 
 stead, 
 
 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 !
 
 102 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 down- 
 stairs ! 
 
 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 !
 
 Pompey's Ghost 103 
 
 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!
 
 IO4 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Pompey's Ghost 105 
 
 " 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,
 
 io6 The Haunted Hour 
 
 "Alas! Some happy, happy day, 
 
 In church I hoped to stand, 
 And like a muff of sable skin 
 
 Receive your lily hand. 
 But sternly with that piebald match, 
 
 My fate untimely clashes; 
 For now, like Pompey-double-i, 
 
 I'm sleeping in my ashes! 
 
 "And now farewell! a last farewell! 
 
 I'm wanted down below, 
 And have but time enough to add 
 
 One word before I go 
 In mourning crepe and bombazine 
 
 Ne'er spend your precious pelf; 
 Don't go in black for me for I 
 
 Can do it for myself. 
 
 " Henceforth within my grave I rest, 
 
 But Death, who there inherits, 
 Allowed my spirit leave to come, 
 
 You seemed so near your spirits: 
 But do not sigh, and do not cry, 
 
 By grief too much engrossed, 
 Nor for a ghost of color turn 
 
 The color of a ghost! 
 
 "Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! 
 
 Once more a last adieu! 
 For I must make myself as scarce 
 
 As swans of sable hue." 
 From black to gray, from gray to nought 
 
 The shape began to fade 
 And like an egg, though not so white, 
 
 The ghost was newly laid ! "
 
 The Ghost 107 
 
 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!
 
 io8 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 Mary's Ghost 109 
 
 " 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 GPJOST : 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!
 
 no The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Superstitious Ghost III 
 
 " Don't go to weep upon my grave, 
 
 And think that there I be; 
 They haven't left an atom there 
 
 Of my anatomic." 
 
 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!!!
 
 112 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Dave Lilly 113 
 
 Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very 
 
 much; 
 They have no use in Grey lock 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 Will- 
 
 iamstown 
 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.
 
 114 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Martin 115 
 
 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. 
 119
 
 I2O The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Haunted Houses 121 
 
 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.
 
 122 The Haunted Hour 
 
 THE BELEAGUERED CITY : HENRY WADSWORTH 
 
 LONGFELLOW 
 
 I have read in some old marvellous tale, 
 Some legend strange and vague, 
 
 That a midnight host of spectres pale 
 Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
 With the wan moon overhead, 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream, 
 The army of the dead. 
 
 White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
 The spectral band was seen, 
 
 And with a sorrowful deep sound, 
 The river flowed between. 
 
 No other voice nor sound was there, 
 No drum nor sentry's pace, 
 
 The mist-like banners clasped the air 
 As clouds with clouds embrace. 
 
 And when the old cathedral bell 
 Proclaimed the morning prayer, 
 
 The white pavilions rose and fell 
 On the alarmed air. 
 
 Down the broad valley fast and far 
 
 The troubled army fled: 
 Up rose the glorious morning star, 
 
 The ghastly host was dead.
 
 The Beleaguered City 123 
 
 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.
 
 124 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 A Newport Romance 125 
 
 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.
 
 126 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 A Legend 127 
 
 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."
 
 128 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 A Midnight Visitor 129 
 
 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;
 
 I3O The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 ringers 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 131 
 
 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,
 
 132 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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?
 
 The Little Ghost 1331 
 
 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!
 
 134 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Ghosts 135 
 
 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:
 
 136 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 137 
 
 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. 
 141
 
 142 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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:
 
 The Return 143 
 
 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.
 
 144 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 !
 
 Haunted 145 
 
 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." 
 149
 
 150 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 151 
 
 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.
 
 152 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 ? "
 
 Haunted 153 
 
 " 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.
 
 154 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Ghost 155 
 
 " 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."
 
 156 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Highwayman 157 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 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, 
 AiA 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;
 
 158 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 to- 
 night, 
 
 But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the 
 morning light;
 
 The Highwayman 159 
 
 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 gal- 
 loped away to the West. 
 
 PART TWO 
 I 
 
 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;
 
 160 The Haunted Hour 
 
 Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at thei: 
 
 side! 
 There was death at every window; 
 
 And Hell at one dark window; 
 For Bess could see, through her casement, the road tha 
 
 he would ride. 
 
 3 
 They had tied her up to attention, with many a snigger 
 
 ing jest; 
 They had bound a musket beside her, with the barre 
 
 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 bat 
 the way! 
 
 4 
 
 She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots helc 
 
 good! 
 She writhed her hands till her ringers were wet witJ 
 
 sweat or blood! 
 They stretched and strained in the darkness, and th< 
 
 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 leasi 
 
 was hers! 
 
 5 
 The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more foi 
 
 the rest! 
 Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath hei 
 
 breast,
 
 The Highwayman 161 
 
 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 ringer 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!
 
 1 62 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 
 R iding 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;
 
 Tne Blue Closet 163 
 
 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,
 
 164 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 ;
 
 The Blue Closet 165 
 
 " 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.
 
 1 66 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 The Ghost's Petition 167 
 
 " 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.
 
 168 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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."
 
 He and She 169 
 
 " 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,
 
 170 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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?
 
 He and She 171 
 
 " 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,
 
 172 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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!
 
 176 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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, 
 WF 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;
 
 Deid Folk's Ferry 177 
 
 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'
 
 178 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Fetch 179 
 
 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."
 
 i8o The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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."
 
 The Fetch 181 
 
 " 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.
 
 1 82 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Banshee 183 
 
 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.
 
 1 84 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 185 
 
 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 Porth- 
 meor? 
 
 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;
 
 1 86 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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, Pen- 
 truan of Porthmeor! 
 
 Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glitter- 
 ing ore, 
 
 And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along 
 the moore; 
 
 And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moon- 
 beams 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 shout- 
 ing 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 Victor 187 
 
 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 Porth- 
 meor? 
 
 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."
 
 1 88 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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."
 
 The Mother's Ghost 189 
 
 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 
 
 LONGELLOW 
 
 Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade; 
 
 / 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.
 
 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Mothers Ghost 191 
 
 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.
 
 1 92 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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, 
 Thy feared lest the dead were on their way. 
 
 Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark, 
 
 / myself was young. 
 They feared the dead out there in the dark. 
 
 Fair words gladden so many a heart. 
 
 THE DEAD MOTHER : ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 i 
 
 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,
 
 The Dead Mother 193 
 
 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.
 
 194 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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:
 
 The Dead Mother 195 
 
 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,
 
 ig6 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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. 
 199
 
 200 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 201 
 
 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; 
 
 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, 
 
 1 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."
 
 2O2 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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 Priest's Brother 203 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Ye*:, cold, cold is the night, mother, 
 
 Yet soundly do I rest, 
 With the bleak North wind to cover me, 
 
 And the snow white on my breast." 
 
 THE PRIEST'S BROTHER : DORA SIGERSON 
 
 SHORTER 
 
 Thrice in the night the priest arose 
 From broken sleep to kneel and pray. 
 " Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, 
 And I a Mass for your soul may say." 
 
 Thrice he went to the chamber cold 
 Where, stiff and still uncoffined 
 His brother lay, his beads he told, 
 And " Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said. 
 
 Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep 
 Before the morning bell should toll; 
 But still he heard and woke to weep 
 The crying of his brother's soul. 
 
 All through the dark, till dawn was pale, 
 The priest tossed in his misery, 
 With muffled ears to hide the wail 
 The voice of that ghost's agony.
 
 204 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 ? "
 
 The Ballad of Judas Iscariot 205 
 
 " God rest you, brother," the good priest said, 
 " No years have passed but a single night." 
 He showed the body uncoffined 
 And the six wax candles still alight. 
 
 The living flowers on the dead man's breast 
 Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. 
 The spirit paused ere he passed to rest 
 " God save your soul from a night so long." 
 
 THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT : ROBERT 
 
 BUCHANAN 
 
 'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot 
 
 Lay in the Field of Blood; 
 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot 
 
 Beside the body stood. 
 
 Black was the earth by night, 
 
 And black was the sky: 
 Black, black were the broken clouds, 
 
 Though the red Moon went by. 
 
 'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot 
 Strangled and dead lay there; 
 
 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot 
 Looked on in its despair. 
 
 The breath of the World came and went 
 
 Like a sick man's in rest; 
 Drop by drop on the World's eyes 
 
 The dews fell cool and blest.
 
 206 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 Ballad of Judas Iscariot 207 
 
 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 drippping 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.
 
 208 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Ballad of Judas Iscariot 209 
 
 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.
 
 210 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 Ballad of Judas Iscariot 211 
 
 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.
 
 212 The Haunted Hour 
 
 '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 wa: 
 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 Eve of St. John 213 
 
 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.
 
 214 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " The bittern clamor'd from the moss, 
 The wind blew loud and shrill; 
 
 Yet the craggy pathway she did cross 
 To the eiry Beacon Hill. 
 
 " I watch'd her steps, and silent came 
 Where she sat her on a stone; 
 
 No watchman stood by the dreary flame, 
 It burned all alone. 
 
 " The second night I kept her in sight, 
 
 Till to the fire she came, 
 And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight 
 
 Stood by the lonely flame. 
 
 " And many a word that warlike lord 
 
 Did speak to my lady there; 
 But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast, 
 
 And I heard not what they were. 
 
 " The third night there, the night was fair, 
 And the mountain-blast was still, 
 
 As again I watch'd the secret pair, 
 On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 
 
 "And I heard her name the midnight hour, 
 
 And name this holy eve; 
 And say ' Come this night to thy lady's bower, 
 
 Ask no bold Baron's leave. 
 
 " ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ; 
 
 His lady is all alone; 
 The door she'll undo, to her knight so true 
 
 On the eve of the good St. John.'
 
 The Eve of St. John 215 
 
 ' ' 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 f rown'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!
 
 2l6 The Haunted Hour 
 
 1 ( 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.
 
 The Eve of St. John 217 
 
 " 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 Dry burgh 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.
 
 2i8 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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."
 
 The Eve of St. John 219 
 
 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.
 
 220 The Haunted Hour 
 
 FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES 
 
 " I am no love for you, Margaret, 
 
 You are no love for me. 
 Before to-morrow at eight of the clock, 
 
 A rich wedding you shall see." 
 
 Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window 
 
 Combing her yellow hair; 
 There she espied sweet William and his bride, 
 
 As they were a-riding near. 
 
 Down she laid her ivory comb, 
 
 And up she bound her hair; 
 She went away out of her bower, 
 
 And never returned there. 
 
 When day was gone and night was come, 
 
 And all men fast asleep, 
 There came the spirit of fair Marg'ret, 
 
 And stood at William's feet. 
 
 "Are you awake, sweet William?" she said, 
 " Or, William, are you asleep ? 
 
 God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, 
 And me of my winding sheet." 
 
 When day was come and night was gone, 
 And all men waked in from sleep, 
 
 Sweet William to his ladye said, 
 " Alas I have cause to weep.
 
 Fair Margaret's Misfortunes 221 
 
 " 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."
 
 222 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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.
 
 Sweet Williams Ghost 223 
 
 " 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.
 
 224 The Haunted Hour 
 
 " 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!"
 
 Clerk Saunders 22$ 
 
 " 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."
 
 226 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 Clerk Sounders 22^ 
 
 "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 sail never get, 
 Nor our true love sail 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 sail na get, 
 And our true love sail 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."
 
 228 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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.
 
 The Wife of Ushers Well 229 
 
 " 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.
 
 23O The Haunted Hour 
 
 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."
 
 A Lyke-Wake Dirge 231 
 
 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 Christ e 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 sail prick thee to the bare bane ; 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule.
 
 232 The Haunted Hour 
 
 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 sail 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
 
 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, 142 
 
 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, 
 
 1 3i, 55 
 
 DOB ELL, SYDNEY, 178 
 Drake's Drum, 41 
 Dream, A, 4 
 DRISCOLL, LOUISE, 132 
 
 EASTER, MARGUERITE ELIZA- 
 BETH, 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 
 
 235
 
 236 
 
 Index 
 
 Grey Ghost, The, 42 
 GUITERMAN, ARTHUR, 68, m 
 
 Hallows' E'en, 13 
 HARTE, BRET, 124 
 Haunted, 130 
 Haunted, 134 
 Haunted, 144 
 Haunted, 153 
 Haunted Houses, 120 
 HAWKER, ROBERT STEPHEN, 73, 
 
 iSS 
 
 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, 1x4 
 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 WADS- 
 WORTH, 6l, I2O, 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., 
 54 
 
 RAMSAY, A. MARGARET, 201 
 Reconciliation, The, 201
 
 Index 
 
 237 
 
 REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH, j 
 
 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, 
 
 S3 
 
 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 Purga- 
 tory, 29 
 
 Superstitious Ghost, The, nz 
 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, i75 
 
 UNTERMEYER, Louis, 134 
 Victor, The, 187 
 
 WARD, ELIZABETH STUART 
 
 PHELPS, 144 
 
 WATSON, ROSAMUND MAR- 
 RIOTT, 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
 
 
 P, UBRAHY 
 . OF CAUFQRUMf;
 
 A 000047811