  Allingham, William. A Dream. (In Charles Welsh's The Golden Treasury of Irish Songs and Lyrics.) I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night. I went to the window to see the sight: All the dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. Arnold, Matthew. The Forsaken Merman. In its delicate loveliness "The Forsaken Merman" ranks high among Mr. Arnold's poems. It is the story of a Sea-King, married to a mortal maiden, who forsook him and her children under the impulse of a Christian conviction that she must return and pray for her soul.—H. W. Paul. She sate by the pillar: we saw her clear; "Margaret, hist! Come quick, we are here! Dear heart," I said, "We are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. —— St. Brandan. ... a picturesque embodiment of a strange mediaeval legend touching Judas Iscariot, who is supposed to be released from Hell for a few hours every Christmas because he had done in his life a single deed of charity.—H. W. Paul. Barlow, Jane. Three Throws and One. (In Walter Jerrold's The Book of Living Poets.) At each throw of my net there's a life must go down into death on the sea. At each throw of my net it comes laden, O rare, with my wish back to me. With my choice of all treasures most peerless that lapt in the oceans be. Boyd, Thomas. The King's Son. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.) Who rideth through the driving rain At such a headlong speed? Naked and pale he rides amain, Upon a naked steed. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. The Lay of the Brown Rosary. Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even? Who meet by that wall, never looking at heaven? O sweetest my sister, what doeth with thee The ghost of a nun with a brown rosary And a face turned from heaven? Browning, Robert. Mesmerism. And the socket floats and flares, And the house-beams groan And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret stairs And the locks slip unawares... Buchanan, Robert. The Ballad of Judas Iscariot. (In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.) The beauty is chiefly in the central idea of forgiveness, but the workmanship of this composition has also a very remarkable beauty, a Celtic beauty of weirdness, such as we seldom find in a modern composition touching religious tradition.—Lafcadio Hearn. The body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow. 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro. Carleton, William. Sir Turlough, or The Churchyard Bride. (In Stopford Brooke's A Treasury of Irish Poetry.) The churchyard bride is accustomed to appear to the last mourner in the churchyard after a burial, and, changing its sex to suit the occasion, exacts a promise and a fatal kiss from the unfortunate lingerer. He pressed her lips as the words were spoken, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And his banshee's wail—now far and broken— Murmured "Death" as he gave the token By the bonny green woods of Killeevy. Chatterton, Thomas. The Parliament of Sprites. "The Parliament of Sprites" is an interlude played by Carmelite friars at William Canynge's house on the occasion of the dedication of St. Mary Redcliffe's. One after another the "antichi spiriti dolenti" rise up and salute the new edifice: Nimrod and the Assyrians, Anglo-Saxon ealdormen and Norman knights templars, and citizens of ancient Bristol.—H. A. Beers. The thing attempted in "Christabel" is the most difficult of execution in the whole field of romance—witchery by daylight—and the success is complete.—John Gibson Lockhart. —— The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. Cortissoz, Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. On Kingston Bridge. (In Stedman's American Anthology.) 'Twas all souls' night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston bridge. Crawford, Isabella Valancy. The Mother's Soul. (In John Garvin's Canadian Poets and Poetry.) Another elaborate variation on the theme of the return of a mother from her grave to rescue her children. Miss Crawford's mother does not go as far as the ghost in Robert Buchanan's "Dead Mother," who not only makes three trips to assemble her neglected family, but manages to appear to their delinquent father, to his great discomfort and the permanent loss of his sleep. Dobell, Sydney. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston. (In The Oxford Book of English Verse.) A ballad unsurpassed in our literature for its weird suggestiveness.—Richard Garnett. She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Drummond, William Henry. The Last Portage. (In Wilfred Campbell's The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse.) An' oh! mon Dieu! w'en he turn hees head I'm seein' de face of my boy is dead. Eaton, Arthur Wentworth Hamilton. The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs. (In T. H. Rand's A Treasury of Canadian Verse.) This was the last of the pirate crew; But many a night the black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand Of the Baie des Chaleurs. Field, Eugene. The Peter-bird. (In his Songs and Other Verse.) These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse, When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil, Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! Freneau, Philip. The Indian Burying-ground. (In Stedman's American Anthology.) By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer—a shade. Graves, Alfred Perceval. The Song of the Ghost. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.) O hush your crowing, both grey and red, Or he'll be going to join the dead; O cease from calling his ghost to the mould And I'll come crowning your combs with gold. Guiney, Louise Imogen. Peter Rugg, the Bostonian. (In Warner's Library of the World's Best Literature, v. 41.) Upon those wheels on any path The rain will follow loud, And he who meets that ghostly man Will meet a thunder-cloud. And whosoever speaks with him May next bespeak his shroud. Harte, Francis Bret. A Greyport Legend. Still another phantom ship, a treacherous hulk that broke from its moorings and drifted with a crew of children into the fog. Hawker, Robert Stephen. Mawgan of Melhuach. (In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.) Hard was the struggle, but at the last With a stormy pang old Mawgan past, And away, away, beneath their sight, Gleam'd the red sail at pitch of night. Hawthorne, Julian. Were-wolf. (In Stedman's American Anthology.) Dabbled with blood are its awful lips Grinning in horrible glee. The wolves that follow with scurrying feet Sniffing that goblin scent, at once Scatter in terror, while it slips Away, to the shore of the frozen sea. Herrick, Robert. The Hag. The Hag is astride, This night for to ride, The Devil and she together. Through thick, and through thin, Now out, and then in, Though ne'er so foul be the weather. Hood, Thomas. The Haunted House. O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear A sense of mystery the spirit daunted And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, "The place is Haunted!" Houghton, George. The Handsel Ring. (In Stedman's American Anthology.) A man and maid are plighting their troth in the tomb of an old knight, the girl's father, when the man lucklessly drops the ring through a crack in the floor of the tomb. "Let not thy heart be harried and sore For a little thing!" "Nay! but behold what broodeth there! See the cold sheen of his silvery hair! Look how his eyeballs roll and stare, Seeking thy handsel ring!" Ha! they are on us, close without! Shut tight the shelter where we lie! With hideous din the monster rout, Dragon and vampire, fill the sky! Joyce, Patrick Weston. The Old Hermit's Story. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.) My curragh sailed on the western main, And I saw, as I viewed the sea, A withered old man upon a wave, And he fixed his eyes on me. Keats, John. La Belle Dame sans Merci. I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'd—-"La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall." —— Lamia. "A serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said, Than with a frightful scream she vanished: And Lycius' arms were empty of delight, As were his limbs of life, from that same night. Kingsley, Charles. The Weird Lady. The swevens came up round Harold the earl Like motes in the sunnÈs beam; And over him stood the Weird Lady In her charmÈd castle over the sea, Sang "Lie thou still and dream." Leconte de Lisle, Charles. Les Elfes. (In The Oxford Book of French Verse.) —Ne m'arrÊte pas, fantÔme odieux! Je vais Épouser ma belle aux doux yeux. —O mon cher Époux, la tombe Éternelle Sera notre lit de noce, dit-elle. Je suis morte!—Et lui, la voyant ainsi, D'angoisse et d'amour tombe mort aussi. Lockhart, Arthur John. The Waters of Carr. (In T. H. Rand's A Treasury of Canadian Verse.) 'Tis the Indian's babe, they say, Fairy stolen; changed a fay; And still I hear her calling, calling, calling, In the mossy woods of Carr! Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. The Ballad of Carmilhan. For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead The ghostly Carmilhan! Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, And on her bowsprit, poised in air, Sat the Klaboterman. Macdonald, George. Janet. (In Linton and Stoddard's Ballads and Romances.) The night was lown and the stars sat still A glintin' down the sky; And the souls crept out of their mouldy graves A' dank wi' lying by. McKay, Charles. The Kelpie of Corrievreckan. (In Dugald Mitchell's The Book of Highland Verse.) And every year at Beltan E'en The Kelpie gallops across the green On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind, With Jessie's mournful ghost behind. Mackenzie, Donald A. The Banshee. (In The Book of Highland Verse.) The linen that would wrap the dead She beetled on a stone, She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, Low singing all alone— "His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die tonight." Mallet, David. William and Margaret. (In W. M. Dixon's The Edinburgh Book of Scottish Verse.) The hungry worm my sister is, The winding sheet I wear. And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. Moore, Thomas. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her birch canoe. Morris, William. The Tune of Seven Towers. No one walks there now; Except in the white moonlight The white ghosts walk in a row, If one could see it, an awful sight. "Listen!" said Fair Yolande of the flowers, "This is the tune of Seven Towers." Österling, Anders. Meeting of Phantoms. (In Charles Wharton Stork's Anthology of Swedish Lyrics from 1750 to 1915.) I in a vision Saw my lost sweetheart, Fearlessly toward me I saw her stray. So pale! I thought then; She smiled her answer: "My heart, my spirit, I've kissed away." O'Sullivan, Vincent. He Came on Holy Saturday. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.) To-night on holy Saturday The weary ghost came back, And laid his hand upon my brow, And whispered me, "Alack! There sits no angel by the tomb, The Sepulchre is black." Poe, Edgar Allan. The Conqueror Worm. Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. —— Ulalume. And we passed to the end of a vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb; And I said—"What is written, sweet sister, On the door of that legended tomb?" She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume— 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume." She never doubts but she always wonders. Again and again in imagination she crosses the bridge of death and explores the farther shore. Her ghosts come back with familiar forms, familiar sensations, and familiar words.—Elisabeth Luther Cary. —— A Chilly Night. I looked and saw the ghosts Dotting plain and mound. They stood in the blank moonlight But no shadow lay on the ground. They spoke without a voice And they leaped without a sound. —— Goblin Market. "Lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: "We must not look at goblin men. We must not buy their fruits; Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. Eden Bower. It was Lilith the wife of Adam. (Eden Bower's in flower) Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet woman. —— Sister Helen. Its forty-two short verses unfold the whole story of the wronged woman's ruthless vengeance on her false lover as she watches the melting of the "waxen man" which, according to the old superstitions, is to carry with it the destruction, body and soul, of him in whose likeness it was fashioned.—H. R. Fox-Bourne. "Ah! What white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! What is this that sighs in the frost?" "A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!) Scott, Sir Walter. Child Dyring. 'Twas lang i' the night, and the bairnies grat. Their mither she under the mools heard that. —— The Dance of Death. A vision appearing to a Scottish sentinel on the eve of Waterloo. ... Down the destined plain 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance And doom'd the future slain. Scott, William Bell. The Witch's Ballad. (In The Oxford book of English verse.) Drawn up I was right off my feet, Into the mist and off my feet, And, dancing on each chimney top I saw a thousand darling imps Keeping time with skip and hop. Shairp, John Campbell. Cailleach bein-y-vreich. (In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.) Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast, And laugh as we stride the storm, I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm. Shanly, C. D. The Walker of the Snow. (In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.) ... I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger Left no footmarks on the snow. Sharp, William. ("Fiona McLeod.") Cap'n Goldsack. Down in the yellow bay where the scows are sleeping, Where among the dead men the sharks flit to and fro— There Cap'n Goldsack goes creeping, creeping, creeping, Looking for his treasure down below. Southey, Robert. The Old Woman of Berkeley. I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat, The fiends have been my slaves. From sleeping babes I have sucked the breath, And breaking by charms the sleep of death, I have call'd the dead from their graves. And the Devil will fetch me now in fire My witchcrafts to atone; And I who have troubled the dead man's grave Will never have rest in my own. Stephens, Riccardo. The Phantom Piper. (In The Book of Highland Verse.) But when the year is at its close Right down the road to Hell he goes. There the gaunt porters all agrin Fling back the gates to let him in, Then damned and devil, one and all, Make mirth and hold high carnival. Swinburne, Algernon Charles. After Death. (In Poems and Ballads, First Series.) The four boards of the coffin lid Heard all the dead man did. The first curse was in his mouth, Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth. Taylor, William. Lenore. The most successful rendering of BÜrger's much-translated "Lenore," and the direct inspiration of Scott's "William and Helen." Tramp, tramp across the land they speede, Splash, splash across the sea: "Hurrah! The dead can ride apace. Dost fear to ride with me?" Watson, Rosamund Marriott-. The Farm on the Links. (In The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse.) What is it cries with the crying of the curlews? What comes apace on those fearful, stealthy feet? Back from the chill sea-deeps, gliding o'er the sand dunes, Home to the old home, once again to meet? Whittier, John Greenleaf. The Dead Ship of Harpswell. No foot is on thy silent deck, Upon thy helm no hand, No ripple hath the soundless wind That smites thee from the land. —— The Old Wife and the New. Ring and bracelet all are gone, And that ice-cold hand withdrawn; But she hears a murmur low, Full of sweetness, full of woe, Half a sigh and half a moan: "Fear not! Give the dead her own." |
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