Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A flagellum, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"—as placed By our own new police,—in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,— In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him," so said the Abbot,—"like Bricks!" Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,— Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,— I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This fact with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-ine." 'Tis a very nice question—but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d——d after all!

MORAL

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me! See what comes of lying!—don't join in the league To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!

Ladies! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand! Don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,—but don't love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS"!

Knights!—whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them—but mildly—don't kick them downstairs! To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!—if not, Send!" A servant's too often a negligent elf! —If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now—don't do that by proxy!—but choose your own wife! For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for—A SARACEN'S HEAD!

POMPEY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o'clock at noon; Because the sun was shining bright And not the silver moon. A proper time for friends to call, Or pots, or penny-post; When lo! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's ghost!

Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed. But Pompey's spirit would not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn't show at night!

But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream To prove the seaman's text, That after black appearances, White squalls will follow next.

"O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear! Don't go and scream or faint; You think because I'm black, I am The Devil, but I ain't! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walked while I had breath, But that is past, and I am now A-walking after death!

"No murder, though, I come to tell, By base and bloody crime; So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits To some more fitting time. No coroner, like a boatswain's mate, My body need attack, With his round dozen to find out Why I have died so black.

"One Sunday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn, As if I had in my inside A heater like a urn. Delirious in the night I grew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gathered all the wool You see upon my head.

"His lordship for his doctor sent, My treatment to begin; I wish that he had called him out Before he called him in! For though to physic he was bred, And passed at Surgeons' Hall, To make his post a sinecure, He never cured at all!

"The Doctor looked about my breast And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said, 'Your case looks very black.' At first he sent me hot cayenne, And then gamboge to swallow. But still my fever would not turn To scarlet or to yellow!

"With madder and with turmeric, He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed, One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost!

"Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die. And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth, It's lying in a bed of mould, Along with Mother Earth.

"Alas! Some happy, happy day, In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match, My fate untimely clashes; For now, like Pompey-double-i, I'm sleeping in my ashes!

"And now farewell! a last farewell! I'm wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I go— In mourning crepe and bombazine Ne'er spend your precious pelf; Don't go in black for me—for I Can do it for myself.

"Henceforth within my grave I rest, But Death, who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come, You seemed so near your spirits: But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color turn The color of a ghost!

"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue." From black to gray, from gray to nought The shape began to fade— And like an egg, though not so white, The ghost was newly laid!"

THE GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

A Very Serious Ballad

In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out— One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing came thus about: She asked him in at home, and then At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two!

"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B., Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory—like Rogers's— Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubt— I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger-joint Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'

"A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in its urn!

"Remember, oh, remember how The marriage rite did run,— If ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now—when I have none!

"And you, Sir—once a bosom friend— Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider yourself kicked.

"A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up! you marry, ma'am, And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow—and off he went Like fowling piece at cock!

MARY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

A Pathetic Ballad

'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside.

"O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces.

"I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home I didn't stay long in it.

"The body-snatchers they have come And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be!

"You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave, in Mary-Bone, They've come and boned your Mary.

"The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Doctor Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's.

"I vowed that you should have my hand, But Fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

"As for my feet, the little feet You used to find so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The T'other's in the City.

"I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van.

"I wish you'd go to Mr. P., And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place They've took for my inside.

"The cock it crows—I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart.

"Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie."

THE SUPERSTITIOUS GHOST: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

I'm such a quiet little ghost, Demure and inoffensive, The other spirits say I'm most Absurdly apprehensive.

Through all the merry hours of night I'm uniformly cheerful; I love the dark; but in the light, I own I'm rather fearful.

Each dawn I cower down in bed, In every brightness seeing That weird uncanny form of dread— An awful Human Being!

Of course I'm told they can't exist, That Nature would not let them: But Willy Spook, the Humanist, Declares that he has met them!

He says they do not glide like us, But walk in eerie paces; They're solid, not diaphanous, With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!

And some are beggars, some are kings, Some have and some are wanting, They squander time in doing things, Instead of simply haunting.

They talk of "art," the horrid crew, And things they call "ambitions."— Oh, yes, I know as well as you They're only superstitions.

But should the dreadful day arrive When, starting up, I see one, I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; And then—Oh, then I'll be one!

DAVE LILLY: JOYCE KILMER

There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.

Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such, But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish, He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.

The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.

I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.

It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.

I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it—but this will be better for Dave.

MARTIN: JOYCE KILMER

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen, Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland, Beyond the trackless purple sea, Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.

Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!



HAUNTED PLACES

THE LISTENERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again the second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only the host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call: And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky. For he suddenly smote upon the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— "Tell them I came and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

HAUNTED HOUSES: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires: The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night—

So from the world of spirits there descends, A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I have read in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral band was seen, And with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum nor sentry's pace, The mist-like banners clasped the air As clouds with clouds embrace.

And when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled: Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.

And then the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

A NEWPORT ROMANCE: BRET HARTE

They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea.

Her lover was fickle and fine and French; It was more than a hundred years ago When he sailed away from her arms,—poor wench!— With the Admiral Rochambeau.

I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, At what gold-laced speech of those modish days She listened,—the mischief take her!

But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed And faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled.

Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea.

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room, And the air is filled as she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume.

The delicate odor of mignonette, The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, Is all that tells of her story; yet Could she think of a sweeter way?

* * * * *

I sit in the sad old house to-night— Myself a ghost from a farther sea; And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me.

For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn, And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still.

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; And there is no sound in the sad old house, But the long veranda dripping with dew, And in the wainscot a mouse.

The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astray In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way.

Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret? But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odor of mignonette!

I open the window and seem almost— So still lies the ocean—to hear the beat Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat.

In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss; And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house.

And no odor of mignonette there is, But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; And maybe from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend was born.

But the soul of that subtle sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past.

And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains.

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless forevermore.

But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night.

A LEGEND: MAY KENDALL

Ay, an old story, yet it might Have truth in it—who knows? Of the heroine's breaking down one night Just ere the curtain rose.

And suddenly, when fear and doubt Had shaken every heart, There stepped an unknown actress out, To take the heroine's part.

But oh, the magic of her face, And oh the songs she sung, And oh the rapture of the place, And oh the flowers they flung!

But she never stooped: they lay all night, As when she turned away, And left them—and the saddest light Shone in her eyes of grey.

She gave a smile in glancing round, And sighed, one fancied, then— But never they knew where she was bound, Or saw her face again,

But the old prompter, grey and frail, They heard him murmur low, "It only could be Meg Coverdale, Died thirty years ago,

"In that old part, who took the town; And she was fair, as fair As when they shut the coffin down On the gleam of her golden hair;

"And it wasn't hard to understand How a lass as fair as she Could never rest in the Promised Land, Where none but angels be."

A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

After all the house is dark, And the last soft step is still, And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow Flickers on the window sill—

When the village lights are out, And the watch-dogs all asleep, And the misty silver radiance Makes the shade look black and deep—

When, so silent is the night, Not a dead leaf dares to fall, And I only hear the death-watch Ticking, ticking in the wall—

When no hidden mouse dares gnaw At the silence dead and dumb, And the very air seems waiting For a Something that should come—

Suddenly, there stands my guest, Whence he came I cannot see; Not a door has swung before him, Not a hand touched latch or key,

Not a rustle stirred the air; Yet he stands there, brave and mute, In his eyes a look of greeting, In his hand an old-time flute.

Then, with all the courtly grace Of the old Colonial school, From the curtain-shadowed corner Forth he draws a three-legged stool—

(Ah, it was not there before! Search as closely as I may, I can never, never find it When I look for it by day!)

Places it beside my bed, And while silently I gaze Spell-bound by his mystic presence, Seats himself thereon and plays.

Gracious, stately, grave and tall, Always dressed from crown to toe In the quaint elaborate fashion Of a hundred years ago.

Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose; Wears my midnight melodist, Snowy ruffles in his bosom, Snowy ruffles at his wrist.

Silver buckle at his knee, Silver buckle on his shoe; Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited In a stiff old-fashioned queue.

If I stir he vanishes; If I speak he flits away; If I lie in utter silence, He will sit for hours and play;

Play old wailing minor airs, Melancholy, wild and slow, Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens Of a hundred years ago.

All in vain I wait to hear Ghostly histories of wrong Unconfessed and unforgiven, Unavenged and suffered long;

Not a story does he tell, Not a single word he says— Only sits and gazes at me Steadily, and plays and plays.

Who is he, my midnight guest? Wherefore does he haunt me so; Coming from the misty shadows Of a hundred years ago?

HAUNTED: AMY LOWELL

See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonlight, And the nails of his fingers glitter; They claw and flash among the tree-tops. His lips suck at my open window, And his breath creeps about my body And lies in pools under my knees. I can see his mouth sway and wobble, Sticking itself against the window-jambs, But the moonlight is bright on the floor, Without a shadow. Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest, And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight's falling softly On the little green orchard; When the gray dew distils And every flower cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What—what!" and goes her way—ssh! I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've stayed there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop or saw, When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies? Are you the old, old dead, Creeping through the long grass, To see the green leaves move And feel the light wind pass?

The larkspur in my garden Is a sea of rose and blue, The white moth is a ghost ship Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs Raining from a garden sky, Pollen laden bees go home, Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask, And a breeze, on pleasure bent, Catches in her little hands The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew Come the little, flying flames, Are they the forgotten dead, Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind, Grass and gardens long ago With a love that draws them home Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves, Love immortal leaped to flame, From the earth into the night Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

HAUNTED: LOUIS UNTERMEYER

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop— The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands....

Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin— And startled by the light Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools A ghostly shape is cast— Something unseen has stirred.... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide— The garden that has been Now blossoms like a bride.... Who entered in?

GHOSTS: MADISON CAWEIN

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow Goes winging slow: Dim fields the sower never sows, Or reaps or mows: And near the sea a ghostly house of stone Where all is old and lone.

A garden, falling in decay, Where statues gray Peer, broken, out of tangled weed And thorny seed; Satyr and Nymph, that once made love By walk and grove: And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould, A sundial, lichen-old.

Like some sad life bereft, To musing left, The house stands: love and youth Both gone, in sooth: But still it sits and dreams: And round it seems Some memory of the past, still young and fair, Haunting each crumbling stair.

And suddenly one dimly sees, Come through the trees, A woman, like a wild moss-rose: A man, who goes Softly: and by the dial They kiss a while: Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, And they like ghosts are gone.

THE THREE GHOSTS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The three ghosts on the lonely road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that stain upon your mouth No lifted hand can cover?" "From eating of forbidden fruit, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the sunless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that red burn on your foot No dust or ash may cover?" "I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the windless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that blood upon thy hand No other hand may cover?" "From breaking of a woman's heart, Brother, my brother."

"Yet on the earth, clean men we walked, Glutton and thief and lover, White flesh and fair, it hid our stains, That no man might discover," Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother.



"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"

AFTER DEATH: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold.

THE PASSER-BY: EDITH M. THOMAS

Step lightly across the floor, And somewhat more tender be.

There were many that passed my door, Many that sought after me. I gave them the passing word— Ah, why did I give thee more? I gave thee what could not be heard, What had not been given before; The beat of my heart I gave.... And I give thee this flower on my grave.

My face in the flower thou mayst see. Step lightly across the floor.

AT HOME: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house. I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat. Said one, "To-morrow we shall be Plod-plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one, "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one, "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the tablecloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I whom from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day.

THE RETURN: MINNA IRVING

I pushed the tangled grass away And lifted up the stone, And flitted down the churchyard path With grasses overgrown. I halted at my mother's door And shook the rusty catch— "The wind is rising fast," she said, "It rattles at the latch."

I crossed the street and paused again Before my husband's house, My baby sat upon his knee As quiet as a mouse. I pulled the muslin curtain by, He rose the blinds to draw— "I feel a draught upon my back, The night is cold and raw."

I met a man who loved me well In days ere I was wed, He did not hear, he did not see, So silently I fled. But when I found my poor old dog, Though blind and deaf was he, And feeble with his many years, He turned and followed me.

THE ROOM'S WIDTH: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD

I think if I should cross the room, Far as fear, Should stand beside you like a thought— Touch you, dear,

Like a fancy—to your sad heart It would seem That my vision passed and prayed you, Or my dream.

Then you would look with lonely eyes— Lift your head— And you would stir and sigh, and say, "She is dead."

Baffled by death and love, I lean Through the gloom. O Lord of life! Am I forbid To cross the room?

HAUNTED: DON MARQUIS

A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain? Then why do you start and shiver so? That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain? But it sounds like another noise we know! The heavy drops drummed red and slow, The drops ran down as slow as fate— Do ye hear them still?—it was long ago!— But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!

Spirits there be that pass in peace; Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole; And the hour that your choking breath shall cease I will get my grip on your naked soul— Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole— I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate: To me, to me, ye must pay the toll! And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

The dead they are dead, they are out of the way? And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind? Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day When ye heard a voice in the calling wind? Why did ye falter and look behind? At the creeping mists when the hour grew late? Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind! And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

Drink and forget, make merry and boast, But the boast rings false and the jest is thin— In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost, Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within, Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin, Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate! Ah, a weary time has the waiting been, But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!



"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"

ONE OUT-OF-DOORS: SARAH PIATT

A ghost—is he afraid to be a ghost? A ghost? It breaks my heart to think of it. Something that wavers in the moon, at most; Something that wanders: something that must flit From morning, from the bird's breath and the dew. Ah, if I knew,—ah, if I only knew!

Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still! O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush, Follow it with your kisses, if you will; O beating heart, think of its helpless hush. Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear Something that was so near, that was so dear!

No—no, he is no ghost; he could not be; Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier; Something shut outside in the dark, while we Laugh and forget by the familiar fire; Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS: JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sail unfurl'd; I said, "I will sail to my love this night At the other side of the world." I stepp'd abroad,—we sail'd so fast,— The sun shot up from the bourn; But a dove that perch'd upon the mast Did mourn and mourn and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove! And dove with the white, white breast, Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away. I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place. O last love! O first love! My love with the true, true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet—we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet. Methought he said, "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet? Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place,—no part,— No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart." O fair dove! O fond dove! Till night rose over the bourn, The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn and mourn and mourn.

BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run And seven times the moon had died Since my lover rode in his silver mail Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea When out of the mist my own true love Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still, My voice rang out that had been sad, Till my sister left her busy wheel To see what made me glad.

She saw my arms about his neck, She saw my head upon his breast. Oh, why did my sister hate me so That she would not let me rest?

Loud then laughed my cruel sister, False and fair of face was she, "O that is never your own true love, For he lies dead in a far countrie!"

I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms And his shining face grew still and white; My tears ran down like bitter rain As I watched him fade from sight.

May the salt sea bury me in its waves, May the mountains fall and cover my head, Since I had not faith in my only love When he came back from the dead.

THE TRUE LOVER: A.E. HOUSMAN

The lad came to the door at night, When lovers crown their vows, And whistled soft and out of sight In shadow of the boughs.

"I shall not vex you with my face Henceforth, my love, for aye; So take me in your arms a space Before the east is gray.

"When I from hence away am past I shall not find a bride, And you shall be the first and last I ever lay beside."

She heard and went and knew not why; Her heart to his she laid; Light was the air beneath the sky But dark under the shade.

"Oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast Seems not to rise and fall, And here upon my bosom prest There beats no heart at all?"

"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock, You should have felt it then; But since for you I stopped the clock It never goes again."

"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops Wet from your neck on mine? What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes like brine?"

"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear 'Twill bleed because of it."

Under the stars the air was light But dark below the boughs, The still air of the speechless night, When lovers crown their vows.

HAUNTED: G.B. STUART

When candle-flames burn blue, Between the night and morning, I know that it is you, My love, that was so true, And that I killed with scorning.

The watch-dogs howl and bay; I pale, and leave off smiling. Only the other day I held your heart in play Intent upon beguiling.

A little while ago I wrung your soul with sighing, Or brought a sudden glow Into your cheek by low Soft answers, in replying.

My life was all disguise, A mask of feints and fancies; I used to lift my eyes, And take you by surprise With smiles and upward glances.

And now, where'er I go, Your sad ghost follows after; And blue the flame burns low, And doors creak to and fro, And silent grows the laughter.

THE WHITE MOTH: SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

If a leaf rustled she would start: And yet she died, a year ago. How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so? And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night?

The light above the poet's head Streamed on the page and on the cloth, And twice and thrice there buffeted On the black pane a white-winged moth: 'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside, And, "Open, open, open!" cried.

"I could not find the way to God; There were too many flaming suns For signposts, and the fearful road Led over wastes where millions Of flaming comets hissed and burned— I was bewildered and I turned.

"O, it was easy then! I knew Your window, and no star beside. Look up and take me back to you!" He rose and thrust the window wide. 'Twas but because his brain was hot With rhyming; for he saw her not.

But poets polishing a phrase Show anger over trivial things: And as she blundered in the blaze Towards him, on ecstatic wings, He raised a hand and smote her dead; Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"

THE GHOST: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I,—once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air. When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold." "Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?" "Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain." "Long dead these to thine...."

Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast Sorrow was there— The sweet cheat gone.

LUKE HAVERGAL: EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,— There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,— And in the twilight wait for what will come. The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,— Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies— In eastern skies.

Out of the grave I come to tell you this,— Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,— Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. Out of the grave I come to tell you this, To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go,—for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.

THE HIGHWAYMAN: ALFRED NOYES

1

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

2

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

3

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

4

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter; The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

5

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

6

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,) Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

1

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

2

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And Hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

3

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

4

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

5

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

6

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear— Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!

7

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

8

He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

9

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * *

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

10

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

THE BLUE CLOSET: WILLIAM MORRIS

THE DAMOZELS

Lady Alice, Lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas We are ready to sing, if so you please; So lay your long hands on the keys; Sing "Laudate pueri."

And ever the great bell overhead Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead, Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.

LADY LOUISE

Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well If you drown the faint boom of the bell; He is weary, so am I.

And ever the chevron overhead Flapp'd on the banner of the dead; (Was he asleep, or was he dead?)

LADY ALICE

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, Two damozels wearing purple and green, Four lone ladies dwelling here From day to day and year to year; And there is none to let us go; To break the locks of the doors below, Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow; And when we die no man will know That we are dead; but they give us leave, Once every year on Christmas-eve, To sing in the Closet Blue one song: And we should be so long, so long, If we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream, They float on in a happy stream; They float from the gold strings, float, from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise: But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;

And ever the great bell overhead Booms in the wind a knell for the dead, The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.

(THEY SING ALL TOGETHER)

How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow? "Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;

"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;

"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die."

And in truth the great bell overhead Left off pealing for the dead, Perchance because the wind was—dead.

Will he come back again or is he dead? Or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?

Or did they strangle him as he lay there, With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?

Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here; Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.

Through the floor shot up a lily red, With a patch of earth from the land of the dead, For he was strong in the land of the dead.

What matter that his cheeks were pale, His kind kiss'd lips all gray? "O love Louise, have you waited long?" "O my Lord Arthur, yea."

What if his hair that brush'd her cheek Was stiff with frozen rime? His eyes were grown quite blue again. As in the happy time.

"O, love Louise, this is the key Of the happy golden land! O, sisters, cross the bridge with me, My eyes are full of sand, What matter that I cannot see, If ye take me by the hand?"

And ever the great bell overhead, And the tumbling sea mourned for the dead; For their song ceased, and they were dead.

THE GHOST'S PETITION: CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

"There's a footstep coming; look out and see."— "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea."—

"There's a footstep coming; O sister, look."— "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook."—

"But he promised that he would come: To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"For he promised that he would come; His word was given; from earth to heaven, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane; You can slumber, who need not number Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

"I shall sit here awhile and watch; Listening, hoping for one hand groping, In deep shadow, to find the latch."

After the dark and before the light, One lay sleeping, and one sat weeping, Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night and before the day, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping— Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair, Some one standing out on the landing Shook the door like a puff of air.—

Shook the door and in he passed. Did he enter? In the room center Stood her husband; the door shut fast.

"O Robin, but you are cold— Chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

"O Robin, but you are late: Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me."— (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

"Lay not down your head on my breast: I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you In the shelter that you love best.

"Feel not after my clasping hand: I am but a shadow, come from the meadow, Where many lie, but no tree can stand.

"We are trees that have shed their leaves: Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.

"I could rest if you would not moan Hour after hour; I have no power To shut my ears as I lie alone.

"I could rest if you would not cry, But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping— Watching, weeping so bitterly."—

"Woe's me! Woe's me! For this I have heard. Oh night of sorrow—oh, black to-morrow! Is it thus that you keep your word?

"Oh, you who used so to shelter me, Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.

"Oh, my husband of flesh and blood, For whom my mother I left, and brother, And all I had, accounting it good,

"What do you do there, under the ground, In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow. What do you do there? What have you found?"—

"What I do there I must not tell, But I have plenty—kind wife, content ye: It is well with us: it is well.

"Tender hand hath made our nest; Our fear is ended; our hope is blended With present pleasure, and we have rest."

"Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come, If your present days are so pleasant, For my days are so wearisome.

"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake: Why should I tease you, who cannot please you Any more with the pains I take?"

HE AND SHE: SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair.

Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

Above her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes Which were the whitest no eye could choose,—

And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away," they said, "God understands."

And there was silence, and nothing there But silence and scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses and rosemary, And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she."

And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp, and he took the key And turned it—alone again, he and she.

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.

He and she; still she did not move To any passionate whisper of love.

Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice or language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear: What is the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its record, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear.

"I listen as deep as to terrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid, from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—

"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,—

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say, With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,

"The utmost wonder is this—I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride. And know, that though dead, I have never died."



SHAPES OF DOOM

THE DEAD COACH: KATHERINE TYNAN

At night when sick folk wakeful lie, I heard the dead coach passing by, Heard it passing wild and fleet, And knew my time had come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, Who takes the dead coach travels fast, On and away through the wild night, The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track, The coach and horses midnight black, Within should sit a shape of doom That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait To hear the dead coach at their gate, And him who hears, though sense be dim, The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face, And mount the steps and take his place, The door be shut, the order said, How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of us all, Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

DEID FOLK'S FERRY: ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

'Tis They, of a veritie— They are calling thin an' shrill; We maun rise an' put to sea, We maun gi'e the deid their will, We maun ferry them owre the faem, For they draw us as they list; We maun bear the deid folk hame Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

"But how can I gang the nicht, When I'm new come hame frae sea? When my heart is sair for the sicht O' my lass that langs for me?" "O your lassie lies asleep, An' sae do your bairnes twa; The cliff-path's stey and steep, An' the deid folk cry an' ca'."

O sae hooly steppit we, For the nicht was mirk an' lown, Wi' never a sign to see, But the voices all aroun'. We laid to the saut sea-shore, An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide, As she micht hae dipped wi' a score, An' our ain three sel's beside.

O the boat she settled low, Till her gunwale kissed the faem, An' she didna loup nor row As she bare the deid folk hame; But she aye gaed swift an' licht, An' we naething saw nor wist, Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

There was never a sign to see, But a misty shore an' low; Never a word spak' we, But the boat she lichtened slow, An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair, An' a cauld hand touched my wrist, An' my heart sank cauld and sair I' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

Then the wind raise up wi' a maen, ('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet). Like a deid saul wud wi' pain, Like a bairnie wild wi' freit; But the boat rade swift an' licht, Sae we wan the land fu' sune, An' the shore showed wan an' white By a glint o' the waning mune.

We steppit oot owre the sand Where an unco' tide had been, An' Black Donald caught my hand An' coverit up his een: For there, in the wind an' weet, Or ever I saw nor wist, My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet, In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

An' it's O for my bonny Jean! An' it's O for my bairnies twa, It's O an' O for the watchet een An' the steps that are gane awa'— Awa' to the Silent Place, Or ever I saw nor wist, Though I wot we twa went face to face Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON: SYDNEY DOBELL

The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, "Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hands upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold. The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps where Andrew stood,— Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

THE FETCH: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

"What makes you so late at the tryst, What caused you so long to be? I have waited a weary time For the hour you promised me."

"Oh, glad were I here by your side, Full many an hour ago, But for what there passed on the road All so mournfully and so slow."

"And what have you met on the road That kept you so long and so late?" "O full many an hour has gone Since I left my father's gate.

"As I hastened on in the gloom, By the road to you tonight, I passed the corpse of a young maid All clad in a shroud of white."

"And was she some friend once cherished, Or was she a sister dead, That you left your own true lover Till the trysting hour had sped?"

"I could not see who it might be, Her face was hidden away, But I had to turn and follow Wherever her resting lay."

"And did it go up by the town, Or went it down by the lake? I know there are but two church yards Where a corpse its rest may take."

"They did not go by the town, Nor by the lake stayed their feet, But buried the corpse all silently Where the four cross roads meet."

"And was it so strange a sight That you should go like a child Thus to leave me to wait, forgotten, By a passing sight beguiled?"

"Oh, I heard them whisper my name, Each mourner that passed by me; And I had to follow their path, Though their faces I could not see."

"And right well I would like to know Who this fair young maid might be, So take my hand, my own true love, And hasten along with me."

He did not go down by the lake He did not go by the town, But carried her to the four cross roads, And there he did set her down.

"Now I see no track of a foot, I see no mark of a spade, And I know well in this white road There never a grave was made."

He took her hand in his right hand, And he led her to town away, And there he questioned the old priest, Did he bury a maid that day.

He took her hand in his right hand, Down to the church by the lake, And there he questioned a young priest, If a maiden her life did take.

But there was no tale of death In all the parish round, And neither had heard of a maid Thus put in unholy ground.

He loosed her hand from his hand, And turned on his heel away. "I know you are false," he said, "From the lie you told today."

And she said, "Oh, what evil things Did tonight my senses take?" She knelt down by the water side And wept as her heart would break.

And she said, "Oh, what fairy sight Was it thus my grief to see! I'll sleep well 'neath the still water, Since my love has turned on me."

* * * * *

And her love he went to the north, And far to the south went he, But still he heard her distant voice Call, weeping so bitterly.

He could not rest in the daytime, He could not sleep in the night, Hastened back to the old road, With the trysting-place in sight.

What first he heard was his love's name, And keening both loud and long; What first he saw was his love's face At the head of a mourning throng.

And white she was as the dead are, And never a move made she, But passed him by on her black pall, Still sleeping so peacefully.

And cold she was as the dead are, And never a word she spake, When they said, "Unholy is her grave, Since she her life did take."

Silent she was, as the dead are, And never a cry she made When there came, more sad than the keening, The ring of a digging spade.

No rest they gave in the town church, No grave by the lake so sweet, But buried her in unholy ground, Where the four cross roads do meet.



THE BANSHEE: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

God be between us and all harm, For I to-night have seen A banshee in the shadow pass Along the dark boreen.

And as she went she keened and cried, And combed her long white hair, She stopped at Molly Reilly's door, And sobbed till midnight there.

And is it for himself she moans, Who is so far away? Or is it Molly Reilly's death She cries until the day?

Now Molly thinks her man has gone A sailor lad to be; She puts a candle at her door Each night for him to see.

But he is off to Galway town, (And who dare tell her this?) Enchanted by a woman's eyes, Half-maddened by her kiss.

So as we go by Molly's door We look towards the sea, And say, "May God bring home your lad Wherever he may be."

I pray it may be Molly's self The banshee keens and cries, For who dare breathe the tale to her, Be it her man who dies?

But there is sorrow on the way, For I tonight have seen A banshee in the shadow pass Along the dark boreen.

THE SEVEN WHISTLERS: ALICE E. GILLINGTON

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor; It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace, It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining whisht and low, And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow, And the cotton-grass sways to and fro; And the gore-sprent sundews thrive With oozy hands alive. Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall? The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; "I rise in the shallows," 'a saith, "Where the mermaid's kettle sings, And the black shag flaps his wings!" Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore; And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; The fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "Heva!" in the town, And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; And ye hoist the mainsail brown, As over the deep-sea roll The lurker follows the shoal; To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor! It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,— It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling whisht and low, And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves blow, And the moor-grass sways to and fro, Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness wild and drear,— How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The live man victorious Rode spurring from the fight; In a glad voice and glorious He sang of his delight, And dead men three, foot-loose and free, Came after in the night.

And one laid hand on his bridle-rein— Swift as the steed he sped— "O, ride you fast, yet at the last, Hate faster rides," he said. "My sons shall know their father's foe One day when blades are red."

And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar Like touch o' driven mist, "For joy you slew ere joy I knew, For one girl's mouth unkissed, At your board's head, at mass, at bed, My pale ghost shall persist."

And one laid hands on his own two hands, "O Brother o' mine," quoth he, "What can I give to you who live Like gift you gave to me? Since from grief and strife and ache o' life Your sword-stroke set me free."

The live man victorious Rode spurring from the fight; In a glad voice and glorious He sang of his delight, And dead men three, foot-loose and free, Came after in the night.

MAWGAN OF MELHUACH: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died: Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide: The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, They had heard strange voices amid the roar.

"Out with the boat there," someone cried,— "Will he never come? We shall lose the tide: His berth is trim and his cabin stored, He's a weary long time coming aboard."

The old man struggled upon the bed: He knew the words that the voices said; Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim, "He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."

Hark yet again to the devilish roar! "He was nimbler once with a ship on shore; Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay, We must make the offing by break of day."

Hard was the struggle, but at the last With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.

THE MOTHER'S GHOST: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade; I myself was young. There he has wooed him so winsome a maid; Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Together were they for seven years, And together children six were theirs;

Then came Death abroad through the land, And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, And again hath he wooed him another maid.

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard, There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread; "Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue, And said, "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."

She took from them the great wax light, "Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."

In the evning late they cried with cold, The mother heard it under the mould.

The woman heard it in the earth below: "To my little children I must go."

She standeth before the Lord of all: "And may I go to my children small?"

She prayed Him so long and would not cease, Until He bade her depart in peace.

"At cock-crow thou shalt return again; Longer thou shalt not there remain!"

She girded up her sorrowful bones, And rifted the walls and the marble stones.

As through the village she flitted by, The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.

When she came to the castle gate, There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"

"Never art thou mother of mine, For my mother was both fair and fine.

"My mother was white, with cheeks of red, But thou art pale and like to the dead."

"How should I be fair and fine? I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.

"How should I be white and red, So long, so long have I been dead?"

When she came in at the chamber door, There stood the small children weeping sore.

One she braided and one she brushed, The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, As if she would suckle it at her breast.

Then to her eldest daughter said she, "Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."

Into the chamber when he came She spake to him in anger and shame.

"I left behind me both ale and bread; My children hunger and are not fed.

"I left behind me the quilts of blue; My children lie on the straw ye strew.

"I left behind me the great wax light; My children lie in the dark at night.

"If I come again into your hall, As cruel a fate shall you befall!

"Now crows the cock with feathers red, Back to the earth must all the dead.

"Now crows the cock with feathers swart; The gates of heaven fly wide apart.

"Now crows the cock with feathers white; I can abide no longer to-night."

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, They gave the children bread and ale.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, They feared lest the dead were on their way.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark, I myself was young. They feared the dead out there in the dark. Fair words gladden so many a heart.

THE DEAD MOTHER: ROBERT BUCHANAN

1

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, Under the grass as I lay so deep, As I lay asleep in my cotton serk Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, I waken'd up in my death-serk white, And I heard a cry from far away, And I knew the voice of my daughter May: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me! Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and in pain I cry, On straw in the dark afraid I lie, I thirst and hunger for drink and meat, And Mother, Mother, to sleep were sweet!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep.

2

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep! The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in, And reached the chamber as dark as night, And though it was dark, my face was white: "Mother, Mother, I look on thee! Mother, Mother, you frighten me! For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!" But I smiled and kissed her fears away, I smooth'd her hair and I sang a song, And on my knee I rocked her long: "O Mother, Mother, sing low to me— I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!" I kissed her, but I could not weep, And she went to sleep, and she went to sleep.

3

As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, My May and I, in our grave so deep, As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk, I waken'd up in the dead of night, Though May my daughter lay warm and white, For I heard the cry of a little one, And I knew 'twas the voice of Hugh my son: "Mother, Mother, come hither to me; Mother, Mother, come hither and see! Mother, Mother, Mother dear, Another Mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and my heart is sad, But I speak my mind and call them bad; I thirst and hunger night and day, And were I strong I would fly away!" I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep!

4

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep, The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walk'd along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and enter'd in. "Mother, Mother, and art thou here? I know your face and I feel no fear; Raise me, Mother, and kiss my cheek, For oh I am weary and sore and weak." I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy, And he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy: I raised and held him on my breast, Sang him a song, and bade him rest. "Mother, Mother, sing low to me— I am sleepy now and I cannot see!" I kissed him and I could not weep, As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep.

5

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear, Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, And I heard a cry so low and weak From a tiny voice that could not speak; I heard the cry of a little one, My bairn that could neither talk nor run, My little, little one, uncaress'd, Starving for lack of the milk of the breast; And I rose from sleep and enter'd in, And found my little one, pinch'd and thin, And croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan, And put its lips to my white breast-bone; And the red, red moon that lit the place Went white to look at the little face, And I kiss'd and kiss'd and I could not weep, As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep.

6

As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, I set it down in the darkness deep, Smooth'd its limbs and laid it out, And drew the curtains round about; Then into the dark, dark room I hied Where he lay awake at the woman's side, And though the chamber was black as night, He saw my face, for it was so white; I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, And I knew he would never sleep again, And back to my grave went silently, And soon my baby was brought to me; My son and daughter beside me rest, My little baby is on my breast; Our bed is warm and our grave is deep, But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep!



LEGENDS AND BALLADS OF THE DEAD

THE FOLK OF THE AIR: WM. BUTLER YEATS

O'Driscoll drove with a song, The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted weeds Of the drear Heart Lake.

And he saw how the weeds grew dark At the coming of night tide, And he dreamed of the long dark hair Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed A piper passing away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls Who danced on a level place, And Bridget his bride among them, With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him, And many a sweet thing said, And a young man brought him red wine, And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve, Away from the merry bands, To old men playing at cards With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom, For these were the folk of the air; He sat and played in a dream Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men, And thought not of evil chance, Until one bore Bridget his bride Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms, The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll got up from the grass And scattered the cards with a cry; But the old men and the dancers were gone As a cloud faded into the sky.

He knew now the folk of the air, And his heart was blackened by dread, And he ran to the door of his house; Old women were keening the dead.

And he heard high up in the air A piper piping away; And never was piping so sad And never was piping so gay.

THE RECONCILIATION: A. MARGARET RAMSAY

"The snow has ceased, the wind has hushed, The moon shines fair and clear, The night is drawing on apace, Yet Evan is not here.

"The deer is couched among the fern, The bird sleeps on the tree; O what can keep my only son, He bides so long from me?"

"O mother, come and take your rest, Since Evan stays so late; If we leave the door unbarred for him, What need to sit and wait?"

"Now hold your peace, my daughter, Be still and let me be, I will not seek my bed this night Until my son I see."

And she has left the door unbarred, And by the fire sat still; She drew her mantle her about As the winter night grew chill.

The moon had set beyond the moor, And half the night had gone, When standing silent by her side She saw Evan her son.

"I did not hear your step, Evan, Nor hear you lift the pin." "I would not wake my sister, mother, So softly I came in."

"Now sit ye down and rest, Evan, And I will give you meat." "I have been with my cousin John, mother, And he gave me to eat."

"Then have ye laid the quarrel by That was 'twixt him and you, And given each other pledge of faith Ye will be friends anew?"

"We have laid the quarrel by, mother, Forevermore to sleep, And he has given me his knife, As pledge of faith to keep."

"O is it blood or is it rust That makes the knife so red, Or is it but the red firelight That's shining on the blade?"

"No rust is on the blade, mother, Nor the firelight's ruddy hue; The bright blood ran upon the knife To seal our compact true."

"O is it with the pale gray gleam That comes before the dawn, Or are ye weary with the road That ye look so ghastly wan?"

"A long and weary road, mother, I fared to reach my home, And I must get me to my bed That waits for me to come."

"The night is bitter cold, Evan, See that your bed be warm, And take your plaid to cover you, Lest the cold should do you harm."

"Yes, cold, cold is the night, mother, Yet soundly do I rest, With the bleak North wind to cover me, And the snow white on my breast."

THE PRIEST'S BROTHER: DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

Thrice in the night the priest arose From broken sleep to kneel and pray. "Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, And I a Mass for your soul may say."

Thrice he went to the chamber cold Where, stiff and still uncoffined His brother lay, his beads he told, And "Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said.

Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep Before the morning bell should toll; But still he heard—and woke to weep— The crying of his brother's soul.

All through the dark, till dawn was pale, The priest tossed in his misery, With muffled ears to hide the wail The voice of that ghost's agony.

At last the red cock flaps his wings, To trumpet of a day new born. The lark, awaking, soaring, sings Into the bosom of the morn.

The priest before the altar stands He hears the spirit call for peace; He beats his breast with shaking hands. "Oh, Father, grant this soul's release.

Most Just and Merciful, set free From Purgatory's awful night This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee And rest forever in Thy sight."

The Mass is over—still the clerk Kneels pallid in the morning glow. He said, "From evils of the dark Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.

"Benediction, that I may rest, For all night did the banshee weep." The priest raised up his hands and blest— "Go now, my child, and you will sleep."

The priest went down the vestry stair, He laid his vestments in their place, And turned—a pale ghost met him there With beads of pain upon his face.

"Brother," he said, "you have gained me peace, But why so long did you know my tears, And say no Mass for my soul's release To save the torture of those years?"

"God rest you, brother," the good priest said, "No years have passed—but a single night." He showed the body uncoffined And the six wax candles still alight.

The living flowers on the dead man's breast Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. The spirit paused ere he passed to rest— "God save your soul from a night so long."

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT: ROBERT BUCHANAN

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Lay in the Field of Blood; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night, And black was the sky: Black, black were the broken clouds, Though the red Moon went by.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Strangled and dead lay there; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Looked on in its despair.

The breath of the World came and went Like a sick man's in rest; Drop by drop on the World's eyes The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot Did make a gentle moan— "I will bury underneath the ground My flesh and blood and bone.

"I will bury it deep beneath the soil, Lest mortals look thereon, And when the wolf and raven come My body will be gone!

"The stones of the field are sharp as steel, And hard and cold, God wot; And I must bear my body hence Until I find a spot!"

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot So grim, and gaunt and grey, Raised the body of Judas Iscariot And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field Its touch was cold as ice, And the ivory teeth within the jaw Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot Carried its load with pain, The Eye of Heaven, like a lantern's eye, Opened and shut again.

Half he walked, and half he seemed Lifted on the cold wind; He did not turn, for chilly hands Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto It was the open wold, And underneath were prickly whins, And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto It was a stagnant pool, And when he threw the body in It floated, light as wool.

He drew the body on his back And it was dripping chill, And the next place that he came unto Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill, And a Cross on either side, Three skeletons that swung thereon, Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat A white Dove slumbering; Dim it sat in the dim light, With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross A grave yawned wide and vast, But the soul of Judas Iscariot Shivered and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto It was the Brig of Dread, And the great torrents rushing down Were deep and swift and red.

He dared not fling the body in For fear of faces dim, And arms were waved in the wild water To thrust it back to him.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Turned from the Brig of Dread, And the dreadful foam of the wild water Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on, Upon an open plain, And the days went by like blinding mist, And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on All through the Wood of Woe; And the nights went by like the moaning wind And the days like drifting snow.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Came with a weary face— Alone, alone, and all alone, Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east and he wandered west, And heard no human sound; For months and years in grief and tears, He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears, He walked the silent night, Then the soul of Judas Iscariot Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste, As dim as dim might be, That came and went like a lighthouse gleam, On a black night at sea.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Crawled to the distant gleam, And the rain came down, and the rain was blown Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on, Pushed on by hands unseen, And the days went by like black, black rain, And the nights like rushing rain.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Strange and sad and tall, Stood all alone at the dead of night, Before a lighted hall.

And all the wold was white with snow, And his foot-marks black and damp, And the ghost of the silver Moon arose, Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves, And the walls were deep with white, And the shadows of the guests within Passed on the window-light.

And the shadows of the wedding guests Did strangely come and go, And the body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow, 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down, He ran so swiftly there, As round and round the frozen Pole Glideth the lean white bear.

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, And the lights burned bright and clear— "Oh, who is there?" the Bridegroom said, "Whose weary feet I hear?"

'Twas one looked up from the lighted hall, And answered soft and low, "It is a wolf runs up and down, With a black track in the snow."

The Bridegroom in his robe of white, Sat at the table-head— "Oh, who is that who moans without?" The blessed Bridegroom said.

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall, And answered fierce and low, "'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Gliding to and fro."

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Did hush itself and stand, And saw the Bridegroom at the door With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he was clad in white, And far within the Lord's Supper Was spread so long and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked And his face was bright to see— "What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper With thy body's sins?" said he.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stood black, and sad, and bare— "I have wandered many nights and days; There is no light elsewhere."

'Twas the wedding guests cried out within, And their eyes were fierce and bright— "Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot Away into the night!"

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he waved hands still and slow, And the third time that he waved his hands The air was full of snow.

And of every flake of falling snow, Before it touched the ground, There came a dove, and a thousand doves Made sweet sound.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Floated away full fleet, And the wings of the doves that bare it off Were like its winding sheet.

'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckoned, smiling sweet; 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in and fell at his feet.

"The Holy Supper is spread within, And the many candles shine, And I have waited long for thee Before I poured the wine!"

The supper wine is poured at last, And the lights burn bright and fair, Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet, And dries them with his hair.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN: WALTER SCOTT

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with the day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: At his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour, And weary was his courser's pace, As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,— But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page; His name was English Will.